Today I am broken. I don’t know who I am.
I am held together by a mess of side-effects and prescription drugs. I don’t know where I stop and the disorder begins.
I reflect on this past year and there are so many actions I can’t explain, choices I don’t remember making. A blur of calendar days.
Why do they call it your hometown if it’s not your home? I am a stranger here myself. Even my bed feels foreign.
I return to men’s shirts and leggings, back to handmade blankets, but I am too tired to escape to the lands of my books. I attempt to paint happiness across my face with powders and pencils, but this disorder has made me ugly beyond recognition. Or maybe this is how I looked to begin with?
The novelty of sickness has worn off. There is nothing unique or special about this brand across my skin. I ache for its removal. I’m ready to be normal now, I plead.
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