I Don’t Understand Life
I catch myself not understanding life
when I walk to the bus stop
or the counseling office,
sometimes eating an apple
or avoiding cracks in the sidewalk.
I can’t understand
how some go their whole lives
and never want to kill themselves.
And I can’t understand
how most people don’t have anxiety.
And why do I love to write
but it doesn’t fill me up?
I am writing I am writing and I love it but
it doesn’t fill the hole in my heart.
And nothing does, nothing I’ve tried.
Emotions are on everyone’s face but
I can’t find them inside.
I’m doing it wrong, aren’t I?
I can’t decide if my plight is mostly unique
or mostly common.
I thought pain was only for the dreamless.
Here I am right in the middle of my dream and
there’s an elastic band around my right wrist
in case I feel a need to cut—
SNAP, a rush of pain that brings relief.
And sometimes when people look at me
I don’t know what to say or do,
so I lower my eyes
and cower inside.
I am not above pretending to be invisible.