I’m lonely. I’m lonely. I’m lonely. I’m lonely. I’m lonely. I’m lonely. I’m lonely. I’m lonely. I’m lonely. I’m lonely. I’m lonely. I’m lonely. I’m lonely. I’m lonely. I’m lonely. I’m lonely. I’m lonely. I’m lonely. I’m
by Darcy Conway
I’m lonely and I hate my mother.
How mundane. Normal pains.
Droplets streaming over veins.
I always thought I looked ugly when I cried.
But isn’t that just why we feel these things. Low self-esteem.
And we don’t have the right to hate our mothers because they gave us their lives and their thousands.
In fact she’s writing me a check as I speak.
Awkward suburban girl, thinking she has problems because she studies too much.
When in fact there are kids out there doing real work. Starving.
And her guilt doesn’t bring them food to fill their bellies.
And her tears don’t bring fresh water to those devastated African villages.
But I don’t think about those things when I lie in bed at night.
Tucked in tight.
I just think about the days moving faster one by one.
And weeks and years and whatever happened to childhood.
And soon two decades will be gone and I still don’t know where I’m going.
Or what I’m doing or who I am and it’s all leading towards a dark dark end. nothingness.
And I feel so small because what are we really in this big wide universe that’s so big that we can’t even imagine where it ends but only know that it does and that is it.
And I’m so profoundly scared.
And I’m still lonely.
And maybe that’s a cliché and maybe the fact that I called it a cliché is another cliché.
But then again maybe everything we say is a cliché only we don’t realize it.
And I’m overthinking again so I get a glass of water and go to sleep.
But in the morning I’m still