Sensitive, strong
Confidence all-encompassing;
Channelling my perfect imperfection
Until my last remaining belief

is in my own worthiness

My
 mental health dangles by a thread – weighed down by lost loves and the sparse foundation of my family unit. Fibre by fibre, the thread weakens from the weight of being. So frail is the thread, though it has weathered storms past, there is no way to hide the

 overturned trees, floods, and sediment that have accumulated, blocking the sun from my eyes. I try to tell myself that I am just blinking, that I will soon open my eyes to cotton candy sunsets and children running to the ice cream parlour, but I know that

 I am only lying to myself. I am not clever enough to cover my own tracks.

I have this tendency when I feel empty, to presume
that there is something I can consume to feel complete. There is no candy wall tall enough, no Spotify playlist long enough, no YouTube vortex vast enough, no collar crisp enough, to cushion the me in there that is holding a place for my “self”. How can you be your “self” when you don’t have one? You shop around for one that fits your vacant interior: like it’s fucking IKEA. Are you the loveseat type? Or is that too much of a commitment? Maybe an armchair will do… if that doesn’t work, how about we add an ottoman?

Wouldn’t that be a good time. If that’s too large a conglomeration, we can just partition and start over. So I take my time adjusting the pieces because that’s what the hell our 20s are supposed to be about: moulding and adjusting a comfortable place in that empty space on which our self will peacefully recline, until finally the landlord bangs on the door telling us that our lease is up.