How do they do it? How do they not stumble? Give me

an adjective to describe this. Is it chemical or characteristic, the way I

fall behind? Bullet point one hits the leg, while

two hits the heart. Words fail me, even. I quit 

the need to shine, the mental image of

an overdramatic life guide coaxing me on. I’m tired, I say. I’m not sure why. In return, an imaginary, tight curled lip, the nostrils flaring. Christ, that 

heavy quantity of believing in something is 

fake for the money, puke stained,

almost like I once wished for. Maybe healing does drag on.

I need to curl up in rags and forget 

about the laundry lists, the self-made expectations. I turn to

the mirror and scream, fault and blame, fault and blame, while, outside the window, billboards.