twists

record scratch

i can't actually be here.

this is all a grand, spectacular distraction.

so are the loud songs i listen to;

i use them to drown things out

i do not absorb their melodies or drum beats

they sound identical to me.

plot twist!

i am often unsure of myself

i tend to make it up as i go along.

despite the fact that i present myself boldly

i am improvising;

a skill i learnt from years of survival situations

and turning my facial expressions into something recognisable

with clay.

that is how i made the mask i write and hide behind

you should really look behind my smile, sometime

because there are marks on the inside of my palms, in the centremost speckled shards of my irises.

occasionally, these marks reveal themselves in the places

where i clenched my fists tight

so as to stop myself from screaming or crying.

those two actions feel synonymous, to me.

it is difficult to know which one will come out; like vomit or a burp, they feel too conjoined.

maybe this is why i keep my nails short?

i don't take compliments well

i laugh them off.

i'm yet to get used to the attention that isn't conditional-

whoops! i did it again

i took a number, an action, a point of validation

and measured it against my self worth.

i tend to tally things up ahead of schedule

and keep myself spinning out of control until a final deadline.

that's the point in time when i will snap into tiny, familiar pieces

and hide inside myself until the sky reminds me of where i am again,

and the nausea passes out on the floor of my bedroom.

i forget things.

i forget the colour of my old friend's eyes.

i forget the handwriting that existed on the inside of a birthday card.

i forget about what time it is when i feel circles traced and patterns drawn in dusky outdoor silence.

i forget how to tie my shoelaces... actually i think that was a dream.

i forgot to mention my fear of puppet strings or hypnosis

or how many people that have come and gone, in and out, over time

collecting and morphing in my memory, in the photos on old phones or inside the souls of dusty videos of a messy-haired, rambling girl who hadn't fractured yet

until they all create a mountainous reminder

of who i am

and who i did not choose to be.

oh, that's right - i'm not supposed to be here.

so, uh...forget everything i just said?

~

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thanks for reading this procrastination poem full of confessions

- Red 💖