self pity (or, “me”) {by alyssa j stanbery}
I feel sick all the
time, now. Like my
tired body doesn’t even
want to keep breathing,
anymore.
My heart beats too-hard
with each tick
of the pocketwatch on my
nightstand, and my lungs
wheeze, and I shut my eyes.
Because sometimes
pretending I’m dead is
better than real life.
I talk about things like
unsolved murders and where
I’d hide dead bodies and the-way-I’d-
love-a-girl-better-than-
any-man-if-they’d-just-
give-me-a-chance
when I’m with people,
in real life. And they all
look at me funny and
move away, and I’m used to it.
Have I ever been normal?
(Sometimes I wish
I’d never been born
a poet.)
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