I scratch out lines of poems as fast as I write them. Nothing is ever good enough, not like I want it to be. I delete every thread, every ounce of work I’ve pushed out into the world. Wanting to rip away the eyes of the audience as much as I want them to see my truth, to see me. How can I survive if I cannot be seen?

I work at a job I cannot stand, but also cannot stand the thought of leaving, because what is the after? Where, then, do I go if I have no means of doing absolutely anything else? I do not want what I have, but it is all I have. Without it, how do I survive to create?

The thought of pressing my foot against a gas pedal, my fingers at the ignition, terrifies me. It terrifies me more than the thought of ripping out my own heart. Perhaps I’m afraid that it’ll stop beating all together the second the gravel is under tires I don’t want to be in control of. How can I survive if I cannot leave?

I want to be perfect, to be everything everyone ever wants and needs. I cannot be that when I am not that for myself. I push myself down into the cracks of the floorboards and allow everyone else to walk ahead of me, to walk on top of me, if that’s what they need. Even if it is not what I need. How can I survive if I don’t have anything I need?