Where i am

i am inconsistent, 
as if you tried to grow
a courgette
year round 

it is difficult to know, 
when i will be happy again, 
if this time it will last, 
if i will be able to get out of bed tomorrow

some days are good, 
others are hard,

some months are grey,
and others are not so much

i wont keep a diary for more than 2 months 
one day i will wake up
incapable of connecting to Her anymore,
i will not know why, or how, 
i ever did it

some months are busier than others, 
more committed, 
productive,
or loud
others,


others are difficult,

fragmented,


and it is difficult to keep up,

with what I was doing last month, 
or yesterday. 

sometimes i love the sound the wind makes, 
drive in thunder storms, 
crave to walk by the beach, 

other times, 
the wind makes my face cold, 
i cant look at the leaves and understand them, 
the way i used to. 

its frustrating, 
that i can never know who i will be or
what i will like

i work so hard to connect to the way
the leaves look in the sun, 
or the shapes my pen makes on paper,

and then,
without warning,
its all gone again, 
or worse, 

its grey again. 

make plans for a month,
and the next you cannot bear to think of them. 

its exhausting. 
i find something to love, 
and then i am begging to know how that felt,
and why i cant feel it anymore

i am unpredicable,
like weather, 
and my mother. 

i am inconsistent, 
in a uniquely fucked up way. 

do not chose to love me, 
because she will love you back, 
and then forget how she ever did. 

i beg to feel consistency,
predictability.

but ive never understood statistics, 
or the weather,
or the way people keep calanders 

i am like rain in summer, 
sun in winter, 
weeds in sand-

i beg to be the tree in soil, 
rain in winter, 
sun in summer,
something i understand-

i do not understand myself,
i do not understand anything really, 
at all. 

its all too hard,
too scary,
too difficult.

plans make me feel heavy,
going out makes me anxious. 

cancelling makes me suicidal, 
going makes me feel out of place. 

and if i figure out how to make it all feel better,
it finds a way to get worse again. 

Oh, to have a routine,
another story, to keep one. 
i want to get out of bed, 
everyday at 8am.

i want to go to the library,
read books and watch sunsets,
talk to old relatives, 
and keep in touch with friends. 

but i hate everything ive ever loved, 
and whatever has colour, 
will eventually become grey. 
words need too many shapes,
talking needs too much sound. 

people stress me out, 
and i hate myself. 


Or worse, I am indifferent.