Dreaming of Perfection

I will not repent. The way the light is bent, I see myself changing. It is not worth it to know that I have worked for what I have - I still feel heavy and sad. I do not suffer from the absence of love, but I crave it. I dig my own grave. I tell my mother I’ve made it this far, so why not keep going? It is not my fault that doors keep closing. I have done what I could. I’ve done what I was told that I should. Now all that is left is the waiting. In high school, I was dangerous. I was always back-bent over toilets. Always feeling the pain but trying to ignore it. Now I take my pills when I remember. I still skip meals, fill up on beer, and I flourish. Now I’m malnourished, uncomfortable. I confront my issues. I roll with the punches. Now I know the cheapest lunches, the cheapest ways to stay alive. I drive with the windows up, without air on. I like knowing what I’ve done wrong. I call my mother a liar, for not loving unconditionally. I call myself out on the sins of my body. When you are sixteen it is easy to hide. Now I ride my days out like a ship in a storm. I just try to stay upright, try to keep my lights on, to keep myself closed, to write when I can, to write what I know. Now I am one wrong turn short of tragedy. My mother looks at me broken-hearted. I used to want to be an artist, now I just want to be. What is left of me, I will pack into boxes. I am not at home anywhere. I want to color my hair again, to wear all black, to have a place to go back to. I want to untangle the mess of my present. I will not repent. I will cry, I will fight, and I will not be sorry for it.

I may look better since I got clean, but I’m dying inside as I’m facing reality. Take me back to the dope game, take me back to syringes and sleepless night. You took my crutch, and I can’t keep doing this sober.