Thought Bubbles

Some days everything in my head is a poem.

I repeat lines over and over

Knowing they mean something,

Fit somewhere that I haven’t

Quite worked out yet

I try to pretend like my family’s favorite color isn’t white

Over and over till they

Taunt me

Or make me sick

My dad will tell me the same stories over and over.

But I don’t mind.

I know he loves words like I do

“Your mother had beautiful hands.

I fell in love with your mother’s hands”

Sometimes I write them down

And hope they become something

She said

“I didn’t raise my daughter to be a bitch.”

But she kind of did

Sometimes they start to become something

Then bleed into something wrong

So I let them go

I don’t know how to exist here

Sometimes — most of the time

They just get lost

They spin around in my head

So fast that I get dizzy

And force myself to forget

I was born a music box

Some days everything in my head is a poem

So I let that be how

The poem must be

A string of words

In my head

Just for me


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