What’s wrong, you ask.

Maybe it’s that I’m beat,

that I've been beaten,

that my body aches

from years of bad

judgments.

That I’m tired,

tired of having to walk

so that I can stumble back

down to a crawl,

maybe it’s that I can’t

form a sentence without the word “I”

or that I can’t seem to please anyone.

Maybe it’s that I’m afraid,

or that I can’t even

carry the weight

of the bags under my eyes,

I don’t know anymore.

To be honest.

But tonight we

went to a show,

and there was this

beautiful print of

a girl, presumably

on her back, with a

hand over her mouth

and the same look that

I’ve had for years in

her eyes.

And when I read the

title it all became

real and I saw my

reflection on top of

the hand and suddenly,

the room full of people

was empty and

I was alone with

the girl that was being

silenced, except I heard

her scream.

And her scream was

mine and mine was hers

and I was nothing

but I felt everything

and this lump on my tongue

got bigger until

it turned into the same

hand that the girl felt

until I was a part of

the print and it was me

inside. I stood and stared

until I became the girl

and then I zoomed back

and saw my reflection again

and the dark bags under my eyes

from being tired my whole life,

and I heard my jaw click,

and my fists clenched

until I hoped that

my palms would start

to bleed,

and I left.

Maybe I’m afraid

because I can never say

what I want, and I’ll

never say that I’m

afraid to go alone, and

that I need someone to

help me, but goddammit

I do.

Anyway, it’s 11:38 and

it’s almost tomorrow and

tomorrow will be better

but it won’t because

I don’t know better,

because I don’t have an

erase button, and phrases

like “tomorrow will be better” are

for people who know

how to feel better.