This Isn't A Poem

I have flaws.
I can feel them in me, stuck and rotting. This isn't a poem.
A lot of things are wrong with this semester, but a lot of things are right too.
Not right in the ways that I want it to be. Not right in the ways where it feels right
I miss certain things about the days that aren't too far from here,
These scents get trapped in the tunnels of my nose
and never seem to leave but always seem to bring me back
And the things I used to smile about, I haven't had much time for
My head is mapped with nonsensical notions that could tease a small child
It's hard to know where I stand. With every fucking thing
So much, I have so much passion in this pit that it hurts everything in me
Every single bone, throughout this curvature.
All my thoughts are weighed with this
and not a soul would know about it. ever.
It's behind the eyes, you know? And I get a lot of ("what?")s, it kills.

My mind can really only be what it is.

I'm a little tired of disappointing people, tired of the embarrassment I feel for this.

Can't the world just let me love things? People are always trying to make a joke.

All I know and all I can sense in me are the things that I lack and long for,

like some form of liberation from my responsibilities.

Every now and then a person needs to hide from the word hello for the sake of honesty

I may be a small child underneath this college degree and skirts to the knee. A jean jacket bonus.

I know this, and couldn't care enough to run from all the pressures of growing up in a mascara mess

The word human has been weighing hard in handfuls on my limbs and things,

I've always wanted to be something else,

you've seen the pictures