That Horrible Feeling in Your Gut

I used to be calm.

I used to be sad.

I used to be a poet.

I used to escape to the woods and watch the grass grow.

I used to be satisfied.

NOW

I am wild.

I am happy.

I am still a poet, but nobody knows that.

I am in the city.

And I am completely and utterly devastated.

Why does Kierkegaard always have to be right?

I had what most people would consider to be a good night.

I got very intoxicated, breezed through multiple houses, and kissed a French man who was extremely attractive.

I don't want this.

Last night, so many people recounted situations of me being a drunken hot mess.

They all laughed ad said they loved me.

But that  isn't me.

I'm the little voice in the background, bawling her eyes out because her original plan didn't work.

I didn't get married straight out of high school and start a family.

I diidn't move to the middle of nowhere with this family and own a garden and some hens.

I didn't wake my husband up to eggs cooked in margerine each morning.

I didn't spend my days cleaning and picking flowers in the field.

I just wanted to be loved.

Now I'm loved, but I'm not me.

Utter devastation.

Happy on the outside, but I am spiritually miserable,

I doubt anyone reads this thing anyways so I can just go ahead and say it.

I want to destroy myself.

I hate this girl that I am viewed as now.

I'm the fun party-in-a-box.

I want to have love.

I feel like No-Face in Spirited Away.

Who's going to take me out of this bath house and lead me to the small cottage in the swamp where I can help a nanny knit?

"and not waving, but drowning"