Maybe you were meant to be a mess.
Pockets full of loose change and three wallets in a drawer somewhere.
Maybe you were made to kiss girls who won’t look at you afterwards, and send you texts saying things like “I was drunk.”
“it doesn’t matter.”, “I’m not like that.”
Constantly shoving your heart down other peoples throat,
watching them gag on the bitterness of it,
pretend you didn’t love them so much you woke up in the middle of the night and went outside to look at the moon, for the simple reason that the moon got to watch them sleep.
Maybe you were meant to be a disaster.
Always burning the soup and forgetting your mothers birthday.
Maybe you were made to feel like running, like there is something everyone else have figured out and refused to tell you,
like how to leave the house without wanting to leave the stove on.
How many more new starts do you need have before you realise that you’re the thing that makes this bad?
Maybe you were meant to be like this.
Bent over the sink, chopping all your hair off again, suitcases packed, heart on your sleeve.