Not Good

I'm not good at keeping in touch.

I eat too much, too quickly.

I stay up too late and generally don't get enough sleep.

I don't often get mad, but when I do, my temper is pretty fiery.

I try every day to limit my hypocrisies and personal inconsistencies; I fall short, but I at least try not to hurt anyone else along the way. I occasionally fall short with that, too.

I have trouble sticking up for myself.

I articulate myself much better in my writing than I do in my speaking.

I talk slowly and deeply and have always been self-conscious about my voice.

I don't trust easily.

While I've started to entertain the possibility that I'm pretty, I have always struggled with beauty and I am trying to redefine it for myself.

I care too deeply, sometimes to the point of neglecting myself and my own boundaries.

I don't want to disappoint anyone, let anyone down.

I'm scared of finding myself in severe poverty.

I'm not afraid of death; I'm only afraid of not loving enough. That's not a typo.

Sticking Cliche

I broke my necklace, mistaking it for fishing line. I was only trying to reach you. The telephone line, my umbilical cord, the last true thing. I can't hold your words, cup them like water in my hands. They are never true. When I finally leave the womb, I can no longer depend on this membrane of worry, and somehow, my mind is less clear. I'm disconnected. Every cliche sticks to my wet body.