every time you litter, another hipster dies.
don't get me wrong, i'm all about recycling, too—
recycling film inspiration, essay ideas, catchy phrases,
and excuses when guys ask me to go on dates.
will you really catch me if i plagiarize
a friend's status update, or tolkien's analysis of beowulf
or some abstract idea buried in virgil's aenied?
or would you even be paying attention?
would my english professors care more
about the fact that i forgot a comma or
about the fact that i misspelled my own name?
my friends throw "friends" in the garbage bin with their words.
how do they talk about me when i'm gone?
a friend once said that my love for people seemed fake—
and i'm thinking, good grief,
is love so hard to come by that you doubt the intentions
of my affections?
my laptop is situated directly beneath a mirror.
sometimes, i look in the mirror and am inspired to take a selfie
of the way my hair cascades round my shoulders
or the way my grey eyes sparkle.
other days, i squint my eyes and say,
you hypocrite, do you even believe half the words you write??
above my makeshift desk dangles a garish valentine's day balloon
sagging from the air it lacks. i keep it there
because my dad gave it to me, and it skims the tips of three candles
which i don't burn
because i'd probably honestly burn
the house down if i tried to light them. someone
told me they've noticed
that whenever i'm about to try something new,
i go into it with the preconception i'm going to fail.
i spent awhile in the darkroom during class yesterday
crying because i couldn't figure out how to develop my film,
and i didn't want to appear stupid by asking for help.
i didn't try out for the solo in chamber choir
because i didn't think i could do it.
people are all like, rachel, what would we have done
if people like colombus and edison and luther
thought they couldn't accomplish their goals?
and i'm like, yeah, but what would have happened
if hitler hadn't thought he could accomplish his?
in the confidence, i recognize my tendency
to believe i alone can achieve all tasks.
and when i say something halfway intelligent
i so easily pat myself on the back. well done, you scoundrel.
i see within myself the difficulty of balance
between believing in naught but self
and doubting God could work anything through me.
why must my keyboard cackle at my fingertips?
my pride convinces me that if i miss even one typo
my reputation as a writer will be shot
like the bloodred tint of my eyes
when i haven't slept in days.
if i accidentally scrape my knees on the sidewalk
i might not feel the pain til a week later.
sometimes i don't see my wounds til they've affected
the very heart of things.