We don’t expect ghost stories to make sense. Neither do eating disorders. That’s not the point of either thing.
Submerged in student debt, I traded my desire for privileged peeves my entitled ego cannot vent in anything other than verse.
I picked my path,
Do not make excuses or apologies for how I exist,
And yet, I am wrestling myself to release my wild.
Here is how this woman has banished her wilderness:
- I chose comfort over creativity, complacency over courage.
- I am my own axis, and what if I cannot keep myself spinning? There is no one to rev my momentum, no pushes or pulls into progress. I am my own inertia.
- What if I’m not good enough at what I love?
- I had to feed myself.
- I’ve creatively starved myself
- I am in debt.
- Debt substitutes for excuse in my mind, fills in for fear, is the explanation for all the things I do not possess the courage to command.
- My soul is art.
- My ego is convention.
- Deep down, I don’t believe I deserve the life I know I am capable of living.
I lament all the things I have the power to change,
All the talent I have, and all the gall I lack to do something with it.
I am a tragedy of privilege.
Fleeing the fear of normalcy,
Of wondering how many substitutes I can swallow before my life becomes sub par.
How do I not settle?
Not sink into something short of self?
I feel the tracks to regret beneath my feet,
I feel the intersection splitting where my heels used to meet.
In my rumbling, riveter gut, I know the answer.
I know it in my bones,
The ones with my grandmother in the marrow,
“Revolution. Set yourself on fire and make soil from the ashes.”