I scrounge for change. I bring my own travel mug
to school because it’s cheaper that way. I start books
but do not finish them. I think about love obsessively.
Everything I do reminds me of my grandfather.
My grandmother visits and talks to me about God,
wants me to believe, but I do not have that kind of faith.
I only believe in the easy things, like red lipstick
and coffee before noon and writing essays in pen.
I make my mind up about boys and then I unmake it,
compare us to continental drift, two ships passing.
I hit the snooze button too often. Write disposable
poems on napkins and old homework, try to discipline
myself when it comes to removing my makeup
before bed. I am trying to understand men better,
cut them some slack, write about them less. I dream
about oceans and mountains and wolves. I do not
always love myself. I do not always forgive myself.
I write apology letters and do not send them. Usually,
I do not mean it when I tell someone “goodbye.”
Shadowboxer - Fiona Apple
The amount of sadness I feel all the time because I’m not mind blowingly good at any one thing fucking kills me. Being mediocre at a handful of things is stupid.