sometimes
the flowers sewn onto my sweater
or
the easy smile I wear
doesn't suit the inside of my soul well.

I've spent a decent portion of my life laughing
at jokes that aren't funny
ranting when I'm barely angry
and
wanting to be a person [of some mixture]
that I'm not.

the ache is making the board of me
bow and I can hardly remember anything
from the last few minutes
[or the ones before that, or the ones before that]

maybe it's because I'm lonely
or maybe the most exhausting and
depressing part
is the inability to be whole
around anyone but myself.