A Piece of Paper in my Pocket from 4 years ago

I’m vomiting.
This is poetry this time.
This is above what it is you want from me.
This is putting my head down because every bit of energy is going into

This.
This is salvation.
This is fear.
This is hope.
This is cliche.
This is everything I fear it is.
This doesn’t make me feel better after,
it’s just something that has to happen.
This isn’t healing.
This is existing.
I have to exist first to heal?

This is tired feet and exhausted will power.
This is mandatory.
Everything always is.

This is a piece of paper.

Do it
Don’t talk about doing it.
Show us
Don’t tell us.
How do I feel more heard?
I have to talk to myself first?
My first friend- this piece of paper?

She’s wearing a blue hoodie and has rusty blonde hair in a ponytail and thick glasses.
I’ve seen her before.
I don’t know where.
Do I know that girl?
Does she know me?

Every city has girls that look like other girls.
My brain scans it’s memories.
Some stickier than others.
Trying to differentiate memory from stories, emotions, fear.
I don’t think brains are very good at that.

When I was back in Ohio, after 2 years in California I knew every face at the grocery store.
Brains aren’t built to not know anyone.
Brains are built for the familiar.
I’m trying to change.
Everyone I meet keeps reminding me of someone else.

A Piece of Paper in my Pocket from 4 years ago