If I could write short story vignettes to describe my mood, the colors of my feelings, or the dead strands of my hair that fall to the ground whenever I am in need of change - I would. If I could explain the mysteries of tear stained t-shirts and half-opened love notes - I would. But I was not blessed with the gift to write, to give answers, or the gift of explanation. I am only a pack of mystery markers, each printing a unique pattern on white paper. I am the stains your coffee left behind this morning because I am the boost of energy you did not drink. I am the throw pillow used for decoration, and the pencil you use to write. I am all things useful, wasteful, and dysfunctional.
I have extraneous talents I waste daily. I forget to draw, paint, and sculpt. I write daily messages via text message and email but forget to write whimsical words that flow on pages of yellow notebook paper for generations beyond this one to read. I forget that stretching my limbs, my mind, and my body require standing up from the fetal position I carry when sitting on my couch. I wallow in 12 a.m phone calls that never come, and drinking habits that resemble that of a nun.
I am all the things you need, and all the things you don't want.
