Tomorrow

What’s wrong, you ask. Maybe it’s that I’m beat, that I've been beaten, that my body aches from years of bad judgments. That I’m tired, tired of having to walk so that I can stumble back down to a crawl, maybe it’s that I can’t form a sentence without the word “I” or that I can’t seem to please anyone. Maybe it’s that I’m afraid, or that I can’t even carry the weight of the bags under my eyes, I don’t know anymore. To be honest. But tonight we went to a show, and there was this beautiful print of a girl, presumably on her back, with a hand over her mouth and the same look that I’ve had for years in her eyes. And when I read the title it all became real and I saw my reflection on top of the hand and suddenly, the room full of people was empty and I was alone with the girl that was being silenced, except I heard her scream. And her scream was mine and mine was hers and I was nothing but I felt everything and this lump on my tongue got bigger until it turned into the same hand that the girl felt until I was a part of the print and it was me inside. I stood and stared until I became the girl and then I zoomed back and saw my reflection again and the dark bags under my eyes from being tired my whole life, and I heard my jaw click, and my fists clenched until I hoped that my palms would start to bleed, and I left. Maybe I’m afraid because I can never say what I want, and I’ll never say that I’m afraid to go alone, and that I need someone to help me, but goddammit I do. Anyway, it’s 11:38 and it’s almost tomorrow and tomorrow will be better but it won’t because I don’t know better, because I don’t have an erase button, and phrases like “tomorrow will be better” are for people who know how to feel better.