my grandmother says I’m lazy,

yet I am fully aware of the tasks

that are meant to be done before me.

I am fully aware of the miles of debris left behind my trail.

I know there are unfinished projects

scattered along my once wooden floor.

I know I no longer remember the carpentry of flooring beneath my bed, because of the mess I have made after every daily upbringing.

i have complete awareness of my laziness, but my blankets are the bars of a cell and my mind the jailkeeper that punishes me to lockdown beneath my covers.

my mother says I’m selfish,

she believes my body being hostage to the confinement of my bedroom is an excuse to my immaturity.

she believes my inability for my brain to focus on the sea of text on a page is an excuse for my stupidity.

she believes my habit of responding with shrieks of tears instead of words is an excuse to my youth.

she believes my commitment to the chocolate covered strawberry of suicide is an excuse to my insanity,

but mother, my being is a hoax, for I am only a puppet to depression,

my actions controlled by strings and my thoughts whispered by its master, my puppeteer.

my boyfriend says I am troubled. he claims I am merely convinced I have a disease, and I have grown accustomed to blaming my mistakes on a simple mindset that can easily be changed.

I can easily be happy by smiling, if only he knew, I smile more than he sees to hide the fact that the glass of my shattered heart continues to stab at me.

but yet, it is only a simple feeling that can be fixed, that I should stop using excuses for my problems, and learn to admit to them.

that admitting is the first way to becoming pure.

but, the thing is, how can I admit to something that even myself cannot comprehend?