I’m forgetful. I check my pockets every time I leave. Phone, wallet, Chapstick, keys.

I’m impatient. I count the pages in the chapter before I sit down to read. Do I have time to read 23?

I’m scattered. I have a hundred half-thoughts before one idea breaks free. Is it real or is it dream?

I’m listless. I shake my legs and wiggle my fingertips and tap at alarming speeds. Sometimes I realize in a gasp that I’ve been forgetting to breathe.

I’m angry. I erupt unprovoked, and make physical the hell that I feel when I bleed. It’s my least favorite part of being me.

I’m lazy. For all the hurry in my mind I am never on my feet. I’m content to sit all day long and think.

I’m tired. There’s not enough coffee in the coffee I drink. Half of being awake for me is wanting to be back asleep.

I’m sporadic. Which means that sometimes, I’m inspired; sometimes I border on complete. Sometimes I can make something lovely.

I’m forgetful.

Ashley Wylde
June 14th, 2015

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