Before I start writing, I have to tell myself I can go back
And change the first line to make it better,
But first I just have to get it all out.
I re-read something I’d written and I sounded hollow.
This must come from working for my rent.
I sounded trite, and sounded like I was trying to be fancy, and stupid.
I sounded stupid. I always sound stupid.
My panic attacks are coming more often.
I’m always haunted by that phrase I read somewhere,
It said that many mental illnesses establish themselves in people’s early 20s.
I wrapped a bandage too tightly around my finger and felt claustrophobic.
I wanted to call an old boyfriend and tell him I don’t think I can do this anymore,
I’m breaking, I’m cracking, I need someone to talk to. But I didn’t. See? I’m still fine.
This one was minor and lasted less than ten minutes,
But I knew it was coming beforehand.
I felt trapped because I didn’t have enough room to walk and my finger bandage was too tight.
I didn’t have a panic attack on the plane.
I tried very hard.
I asked him what he wanted me to do with this.
Then I flexed both hands and held them over my collarbones.
“This, this, isn’t mine. It’s yours. It belongs to you,
Whatever it is.
What do you want me to do with this. What do I do with this?”
Will I always be covering up for my accent?
Will I ever have a home?
Will I ever fit in?
Will I ever not wish I was in the past?