Addicted to Self Discovery
My mamma told me artists are born full, or starve forever.
Joyous lives are pre-selected.
Choose wisely, while I drink away the memories of the stories I didn't write.
Why is it so hard to write about the ones we love, while we're loving them?
Why does "joy" feel taboo on my tongue?
I want to express myself, without defending my pain.
You spend your entire life surviving a monster,
only to wake up an imposter.
I identify as such.
Refusing to commit because I'm still digging.
Or climbing, or relearning how untrue her words really were.
How she never found herself.
Or maybe, like a blind date, she got there, didn't like what she saw;
and drove to the liquor store.
And here I am, addicted to nicotine and self discovery.
Afraid to admit I might like who I am.