Twenty something

Face is hot.  Might be red. I haven’t seen myself in awhile.  Haven’t gathered the courage to face myself.  Her eyes are not forgiving.

I can feel the sweat. It’s sinking into everything around me. The edges between myself and my clothing have been blurred. Softened. 

From my bed I stare up at the blank ceiling. I envy it’s ability to be so empty.  So above me.  Out of reach.  Out of reach.  That freshness.  That coolness. And I’m so hot. 

Dragged down by the weight of being.  Held down by my human-ness. Bound to conventions I did not create.  Communicating in a language I can not significantly alter.  Draped in cloth.  Draped in lies. Doing just enough of what they tell me to get by. 

Am I getting by?  Am I moving?  So slow.  So slowly it’s crept up.  This realizing what I am.  Who I am.  That I am never permanent. 

And still,  though I know my reflection will gaze back at me seeing all I have seen,  a changed woman compared to when our eyes last met, I fear her. 

She seems to know what they know.  What I don’t.  What am I missing?  Why can’t I seem to bridge the gaps within my mind?  I suspect that’s how I can get there.

There.  Where?  Not here.  Never here.  Here is never the right place. It can’t be.  Gotta keep moving. 

He’s never the right one,  I’m never the right weight,  never ordered the right food,  never chose the right words, never wore the right dress,  never wearing the right expression,  never moving through space and time the right way. 

She knows.  My reflection knows.  But she can’t show me.  And I won’t let her.

Sinking deeper into it now.  The bed and my body are one.  Maybe I’ll be trapped. Trapped here,  oh what hell.  I would wish it to be over quickly. 

But I am not trapped.  And I am not free.  Am i? am i?


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