As I sit with streams of consciousness 

typing words upon clicking keys 

I begin to think of existence. 

Blank.

The trees outside are swaying. 

My fingers type with out hesitation  

A hum of the refrigerator fills the airwaves 

trying to find a shred of inspiration 

I feel stuck in my mind 

Unable to shake the steady feeling of unease. 

What am I uneasy about. 

Why do I think too much?

What do I think about?

Who even am I and how did I get here. 

I stare at my hands as they move effortlessly across the black and silver keys.

They are the carriers of these words formulating in my head that my eyes recall moments later. 

This doesn’t make sense. 

Does anything make sense. 

My mind is still. Yet cluttered.

My body is tired. My mind is not still I just wanted to sound like I had it all together. 

I’m a mess. 

I don’t know. 

A default response to avoid a difficult moment.  

A place to find solace amongst a pool of uncertainty. 

Why does this sentence hold so strong in my mind. 

Why can’t I remember the context of questioning. 

What is this bookmark in my brain. 

Bookmarks in your brain. 

The memories of strong emotions. 

I don’t know. 

You’re not even going to let me fuck you. 

Now you’re fixed. 

Were you broken or just made to feel that way. 

Why do words hurt. 

Why haven’t you ever processed these feelings. 

Why do you always have to hide them in the depth of your complexity. 

Don’t run away. 

Why are there so many questions without answers. 

You are a product of your experiences. 

Re-reading these words is feeling like an out of body experience. 

Reliving past memories. Or memories of memories. 

Is this the key to putting them behind me. 

When did you start feeling small. 

Have you ever felt big. 

Why can’t you ask to have your needs met 

Why do you always shy behind the unphased girl who doesn’t want to make anyone upset or angry 

Stop reading what you wrote above and focus what’s on your mind. 

Let the words flow from your mind onto the page so you can live without the burden of carrying them around up there. 

Stop. 

You’re hiding again. 

You can’t face asking to have your needs met because you’re afraid of the disappointment. 

You’re afraid of not being enough 

You’re afraid of being vulnerable 

You can’t turn to sex, shopping and drinking anymore. 

It’s time to face your demons and come out a stronger, more wholesome version of you. 

The versions that exist of you are memories in other minds. 

Fuck this. 

Sunlight on the window sill. 

It’s almost time to go to yoga. 

Find your peace.

I don’t know.