I don't know what's wrong with me. Tunnel vision. I try to look both ways, but I can't see what isn't right in front of me, and even then it's a small window. The walls are closing in, around my eyes, my ears, my lungs. It's like I can't breathe, but if I really couldn't breathe at least I'd have the privilege of no longer being here.

It's like waking up early Sunday morning to catch the sunrise, only to find out the sun is gone, gone, never coming back. He ran away with the moon, the dish and the spoon, and by now they're probably miles down the Milky Way, beyond even a speck of dust. But you can't blame them for leaving us, can you, because there comes a time when you just can't take care of everyone anymore--you've gotta take care of yourself.

At least, that was my reasoning, and we see how far that got me. 'I've gotta take care of myself, because you won't and neither will anyone else.' But we all know that's bullshit. I'm not taking care of myself. I can't make myself do anything. But I can't acknowledge that it's my fault, really, because some days it's just so hard to even think about getting out of bed, about letting my feet hit the floor, about seeing people, communicating, smiling, walking, moving, breathing, it's just too much. Once feet meet floor it's all over, it all becomes real. I can't hide in plain sight.

I just keep looking both ways, left-right-left again, but I can't see anything coming until it hits me. I can't feel the vibrations of the world under me, warning me to watch out. Protecting me, even though its sun left. So noble. But I've become so disconnected that I can't read the signals of my mother Earth anymore, can't hear her telling me to watch out, you didn't look hard enough, come on, sweetheart, pull yourself together before you get yourself killed. Lord knows I can't lose another one.

Disconnected. Disjoint, excommunicated, exiled, self-imposed. Maybe someone wants me around, but I sure don't. And even if they say it--even when they say it--I won't believe it. I've already convinced myself otherwise. I've walked that path, I've been there, I had my chance and I destroyed it, and now I'm left to clean up on my own, as it should be.

I don't know what I'm saying anymore. I don't know why you read all of this. I'm not okay, and I haven't been okay, and I don't know when I'll be okay again. Just don't worry about me. I've made too many promises I have to keep, so I'll be here for quite a while longer. I'll try not to burden you while I'm here.

Two-cup Sundays.

The best kinds of days are two-cup Sundays
Waking up at a leisurely 10:00 am to a hot black cup in a penguin mug
And spending the rest of the morning lazing down the highway
Corn rushing by on either side, dry from the drought
Soybeans blurred into one goldenrod block of earth
Feeling content in a journey, home on the other side
Where I'll stay up until 1:00, maybe 2:00
Pretending to study, but really just thinking
Brain stimulated by peppermint steam from a new mug, this one striped
Sitting back, bathed in warmth, letting the afternoon stay free
Knowing what's left to do can be done another time.

The best kinds of days are two-cup Sundays
When the warmth of the first cools, the second replenishes
Until morning comes, ready for cup number three.

Faces: Redux.

I made some changes to this piece to fit the prompt for an English assignment. There are things I like about the new one, but I think overall I prefer the original. Feel free to let me know what you think.


Sometimes, when the mirror peers back at me from far away, I see hollowness. I focus on the shadows under my cheekbones, the purple bags under my eyes, the cuts and scrapes and bruises across my cheeks and forehead. I see my scars. I wince at a pale reflection and eyes too wide for a small visage. I strike myself as a lost child.

But sometimes, when I get closer, I perceive things better. I recognize the familiar freckles dotting my nose, the even tone across my cheeks, the black flecks in my eyes that give them the appearance of depth. I notice thick black lashes that don’t need mascara. I see the red flush of blood protecting my face from the chill air. I straighten at the sight of a teenage girl, a member of a pack, just like any other.

Sometimes, I wonder how many faces I have. I wonder which face is my real face, or if they’re both mirages. I wonder which face my best friend sees, and which face the cashier at the grocery store sees, and I wonder if they’re the same. I wonder if the snickering I hear is about me, if the gazes weighing heavily from behind are malevolent or benign, or even just a figment of my imagination, echoes of fear resounding in my mind. I wonder if the days I deem myself acceptable are the days that the world finds me acceptable as well, or if we all have opposing opinions on what I should look like.

Sometimes, I wonder if my face even matters—if what I see and what everyone else sees makes a difference. I wonder if people appraise me at face value, or if they wonder what thoughts lay beneath my skull. I wonder if I appear twelve, like they tease me that I do, or if I give the impression that I’m twenty, like they assume I am before they see my face.

Sometimes, I think that all of my faces are truly just one, and that it’s not my face being altered, but my mind.