mind
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I’m used to this feeling. Moving on doesn’t hurt so much anymore. My feet stopped dragging last month. My lungs no longer feel on the verge of collapse. I think you conditioned a certain kind of break— somewhere between my kisses and hers. The realization hit quietly: wanting something—someone—too badly can take the fun out
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My mind is miles before me and I feel so out of body. Repetitive in my actions obsessing over a routine that does not seem to fit. Chasing myself weighed down by my breath, the words that live on my lips refuse to be a part of written truth. Anxiety whispers to me, to believe
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For some, the lips only speak what the tongue allows. The eyes say more— but I trust only the walk. How deliberate are your steps, that when you move, I believe you’ve left? We paint with frivolous words. But our actions— they’re the only things we ever commit to, no matter the condition. And our
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I live with a writers anxiety where the words that reside in my head obsess over print. Anxiety so strong that my thoughts have formed into a narration. I recite lines in my head ignoring our current conversation. “Wait, what did you say?” “Please, can you repeat that?” Nervous laughter as my only contribution. Incessantly,
Wishful Thinking 