I have it stuck in my head that I am always the one who is expected to stay stagnant

to be the girl waiting back behind the picket fence who is familiar in all the ways that feel like home

but in all honesty, I am too disparate to be her

half the kitchen would be clean and the pantry would be full of all the ingredients of abandoned dreams

i'd be eating the leftovers of last week's culinary disaster

my room would be a museum of all the times i have ever loved, even if i'm only sentimental in the short term

and my desk would be covered in receipts and empty boxes of cookies,

all the postcards we bought and never made time to write

i paint my life with the best of intentions, i thought about you but not in the way that wounds

i'd either be in all day or never at all

contradiction, cyclical rebellion, oscillation, dejavu

its always the smallest things that really break you