I rarely agree that we don’t [bad word]  But some people have it so easy. If I filter my confidence, I only end up with minerals and letters. Letters to poems and poems to screaming and yelling inside my head because I can’t get to sleep when I crawl into bed. 

My face hurts because I’ve been smiling so often. I really that prone to exhaustion? My jaw is sore, my choices are poor, my lethargy secludes me to my own coffin. I push my hair back into it’s rightful position. Then I mess it up because jealousy marks my every word with precision, with shame, with nostalgic, depressive hate and I wonder if I’ll ever be sewn up again.