I forget that I am a girl.

March 23rd, 2025

Sometimes I forget that I’m a girl. 

Instead, I am a sentient archive of unreachable dreams.

But I’ve been told that I am a human,

a shell of warm flesh and glass bones. 

Please don’t tap on the glass, kids.

For I am a glass child. 

Upon further investigation,

I am not just a machine that runs on gasoline,

fear and indulgence,

astrological tendencies and internalized rage,

pure confusion,

and tea.

My mind won’t stop jabbering, 

because sometimes I forget, 

and I think about how I should love my body

and not compare it to every other feminine energy

I pass on the street. 

Thinking Love would like me more if I were 

bigger, smaller, taller, muscular, 

better.

DIFFERENT. 

But I should love my body, 

for it was hand-crafted by Aphrodite,

or whoever I believe in.  

Sometimes I forget what I believe in.

Because then I think about how tea makes me feel warm

when my heart can’t bear to feel anything else.

And how it is winter,

and I know exactly what I’m doing. 

Yes…exactly what I’m doing.

Despite the spouts of stuckness,

and the glue on my bed sheets

that lull me back into my bed

and the insistent want to become someone else–

someTHING else

I forget who I am. 

Because I think about the peculiar passage of time

and how my days merge together.

They are impressively successful.

They push at each other’s chests 

and grab each other’s throats 

to compress and become one. 

Until they are just a week that has passed.

Two weeks.

A month.

What month is it?

I forget what day it has become. 

Though, somehow, I never forget the loneliness

The abandonment.

The grief.

No matter how hard I tug at threads 

it will always linger.

Until it doesn’t.

Until my “strength” becomes numbness,

and I can’t see the line between good and bad.