To It

Dear It,

My mind has started to automatically sort people I see into “Wants It” and “Doesn’t want It enough.” I seem them walking around with arrows above their heads, the flashing billboard kind, markers of future success versus mediocrity. The ones who want you, the ones that know what you are to them in your unique manifestations have a glow. Maybe it’s the neon lights of the flashing arrow I see, maybe it’s a different electricity altogether. The rest of the world is dim in comparison. The drudgery of monotony in their day-to-day existence drapes like a blanket over their heads, hiding them from the world they are meant to inhabit and likewise that world from them.

 Sometimes I feel glimmers of my version of you and it is so overwhelming that I panic and start suffocating myself with my comfort blanket, refusing to acknowledge that there is something I want that is very different from the something I’m doing. Oh, of course, I’ve whispered about It one or twice, but there have been so many conversations that I’ve jumbled It up in a pile of maybes. Damn little maybes tangled together like necklaces in a jewelry box. Too many damn little maybes to bother untangling, which in itself would require choosing one to adorn myself with in the first place. Damn finicky little shitty tangled maybes that were a joke to begin with. Each one was a distraction at best. Pretty shiny things. Useless decoration, medals of dishonor celebrating oaths and declarations that died once they left my lips. Damn maybes, I never believed in you anyway.

Please don’t give up on me yet. I can’t bear the thought of living a smothered life. I live it every day, petrified to move forward and seem ungrateful for what I’ve received in this warm safe world. Frozen and aging, wanting, and fearful that this fucking tangled maybe around my neck will hang on me for the rest of my life.




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