#lookingfortheanswer

You’re not the answer.

You never were.

I started asking the question when I was young and I felt alone at the lunch table. I asked the question when I looked in the mirror and felt fat. I asked the question when I cried when I was being punished by my parents. I asked the question when I felt like my brothers and sisters were friends with each other without me. I ask the question when the sun goes down every night. ... when I sit by myself in a group of friends. ... when I talk.

And I dig for the answer I crawl and hold on and sweat and bleed and push and force and squeeze and kick and yell and cry and pray and curse and slam and slap and fall back, having no more answers than I did before.

I was born once, why should I have to be born again?