misgivings

No matter how much time passes, I seem to be holding out and holding back for reconciliation. Dodging darting questions I have only honest answers to. I think I’m overdue for spiritual psychosis.

I’ll continue to write mediocrely, my pages printed with half-hearted metaphors and lazy tropes. I’m running out of time, but there’s so much time and I’m sad and in bed. It’s honest writing, even if it isn’t good. It’s hard to convey the deep melancholic nature I’ve been plagued with all my life without sounding cavalier, forever a faultfinder.

My self-awareness consumes me. I have a deep, shameful understanding of who and what I am. In a poetry class, I was told that all good writing is stolen writing—maybe I’ve been plagiarizing since.

It’s all self-involved, all whimsy and no substance. A logophile with thesaurus.com in my favorites tab, dressing up empty thoughts in expensive words, living as soft as a chenille scarf in the warmth of a boutique.

Am I writing to understand myself or to excuse myself? Or maybe I’m just filling the silence with prettier noise.