In a country where Nazis are spreading like wildfires, I still get caught up in making strange faces to myself in the mirror just to see how far I can go before I look socially unnaceptable. 

I’m simple.

I’m distracted.

Sometimes I like to mimic what a stroke looks like, drooping the left side of my face as if my batteries need changing, and romanticize the dread that me and my loved ones would surely experience. And then I swiftly return my face back to normal because I would begin to embarrass. That isn’t a pretty face. Like our mothers said, “Don’t make funny faces; it’ll stay that way”. You’re right, Mom. Every stroke victim was just faking a stroke, and the stroke — stuck.

Dread and dream are one letter apart.

That kinda sucks.

Maybe it’s on purpose.

I like to close my eyes and see how much I can trust my equilibrium and intuition to lead me through the house.

I can’t trust them very much. They are both the source of my anxiety, probably.



Trust and thrust are also one letter apart, but that’s just a little bit more comical.

I still didn’t laugh though.

It’s coming to my attention that most of my sentences start with ‘I’. Apologies are in order for my lack of variety. You’re just lucky I capitalize them sometimes. 

My old teachers would hate that most of my sentences start the same.

Any future therapists I might have would love it.

It does their job for them.

I’m selfish.

This is my poem.

It’s terrible,

just like ‘I’.

But I fucking love it,

and I fucking love ‘I’.

Take ‘I’ away from me.

I dare you.

I’ll still always be willing to give everybody my ‘I’, so long as it helps them through their sleepless nights. I wonder if they’d ever help ‘I’. People think ‘I’ surely have everything together.


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