A Summer's Day is Not a Bitch (Poetry)

Thinking . . .

I think I think too much

I think myself into stomach aches and nights spent staring at the ceiling

I think myself into weeklong hysteria where nothing feels quite right, but I'm not sure nothing's wrong

Does the way I think disturb you as it does me? Because I think it should.

I think it should bother you. The kind of thinks that follow me around.

The twisting, turning, churning knot of thoughts I can't control that gets tighter with every breath

My insecurities remind me of roots, branching from the stretch marks in my side and creeping their way up and up into the far corners of my life

I scream at you because the roots have moved up into my throat

They're pressing and pulling until I barely choke out the words

"I hate you!"

But I don't and I wish I could say otherwise but I can only think it

And maybe if I say a prayer, just maybe it might mend me

Prayers are impossible when you never roll out of bed to fall on your knees

Thinking pins me down and tucks me underneath the sheets

Because there is where I can hide from the sun
There is where thoughts will sit and fester with me until I'm numb

And my prayers will take the shape of Prozac

Where the only decision I need to make is grabbing the bottle

It's starting to seem that my decisions are not mine

Sometimes it feels like thoughts are both my reason and my rhyme

I'm so painfully aware of the ways I fall short

So when you remind me of them I can only say

"I know"