You Think You Know the Number I’m Wound To

Heartwrenchingly, beautifully, tragic.

I felt this funk today.
Slipped into it mid-afternoon.
Tripped over my thoughts and failed attempts to rationalize.

I left the loudness and bright eyes at the door.
Sat among piles of crumpled papers littered with fears and challenges.
Fought to think straight, despite the mess being all I could see.

I can’t remember how I got to this room.
How, between here and there, I lost the moment.
Losing myself seems unfamiliar in days that I’ve spent reclaiming identity.

I try giving you the benefit of the doubt.
Hoping in the midst of contrary evidence.
You could never understand me.
You won’t ever understand.

Still, I listen to this same song.
Over and over I play it.
Pathetically dreaming.
Recreating the memory with rhythm in time.

You think you know who I am. Got me all figured out. Know my type down to the T. But you’re wrong.
One-of-a-kind, no ordinary. If you’re who you are, you’d see. You don’t need me.

You’ll know my color when you see it.


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