she was, she is

was a lost configuration amalgam of heart spaces and too many nights spent agonizing over too many nights spent alone

was a particular friend to her worst enemy of herself, the lover of her own dramatized existence

was a perpetuator of her own subordination to inner turmoil

was a mis-directed mental contortionist rebelling against the very cause she kept fighting to believe was worth dying for

she is

a parallelogram fragment of simplicity
a judgement of ignorance wrought in endless confusion and apathy
a desperation of spirit asking itself why it keeps doing that which does not serve itself
a writer going on rambler trying to make something out of nothing in her head

This is not an apology, nor is it an answer.

Climbing the mountains of your self only to reach the top and still not know where else to go is difficult, confusing. Should do this, should do that, trying to figure oneself out in the midst of everything that could or should be I run myself ragged in my head running nowhere instead hoping for some sort of answer not yet (most likely never) forthcoming.
Professing love isn't so simple when love is convoluted into itself over and again. Love isn't so profound when you've lost the meaning and meaning keeps itself protected in its lack of structure. The structure defines the meaning and the meaning lacks itself an understanding to really come together within. Reflect on reflexivity and action breaking waves across histories of life in past and past creating future, present creating future lost and prison gained constructed into ideologies personified and personalized. Please leave satisfied in love. Just let it go. Just let it be.
Watching mindless mentalities re-invigorate themselves.
Wishing for meaning from something greater than who you are. Wishing for meaning in yourself that you cannot possibly define anymore because you are weighted down by the weight of all the judgements on yourself your brain keeps telling you you are the composition of your thoughts.
But you are more than that. You are not your thoughts, nor your actions, nor your past, present future as it unravels becoming and creating.

was a broken record playing albums of self-deprecation and unwillingness to empower herself
was a stagnant wish for something better constantly perpetuating something worse

is a person sitting a wondering how in the hell she can feel so powerless to her own powerlessness
is a numbed spirit here sitting reflecting on dull edged memories
is a 'healthy' 'well' woman body uncomfortable with itself

I am afraid because I spend so much time wishing to look a certain way I do not do anything to actually change that all this same energy could be going somewhere 'better' 'more productive'

is a girl who still calls herself ugly and fat and doesn't believe it enough to change it, doesn't disbelieve it enough to stop the internal repetition iambs of wasted emotionality

write a haiku go smoke your cigarettes and erase everything you've ever thought

become anew again, start over

she was

she is

still.