Sometime in April

Mystified by Fleetwood Mac plays on repeat

I looked to certain sentences in the novels I read, like church goers on Sunday look to God, reverently waiting to be told I’m where I need to be, any sign that brought a certain affluence / like ginger on an empty stomach or rain on the morning of a hangover. I’m superstitious nowadays, wishing on clovers, skipping cracks in the pavement and screenshotting pictures of 11:11, am and pm, so anxious to be someone’s kind of perfect. Swept off my feet with the smallest acts of consideration, it’s crumb collecting with tweezers, desperate and all consuming.

I think I developed a craving for devotion, a single place to swear towards / against-

some kind of on earth religion, a freedom search, martyr minds and all that. Safely kept anthologies made with daily routine and fetishised self-care. I keep refusing my own discipline, breaking whispered promises in my pillow. I want to be good, so very good, but I can’t help it when I’m bored. I feel homesick all the time, for where - I do not pretend to know. Sometimes I seek to fake my own death, run away and start over, same flesh but different perspective, a nuanced change in reality. I want to keep red lipstick on without smudging it, for my fringe to sit right, I’m sick of disappointing mirror stopovers and imperfect reflections. I talk a lot for someone who is scared of being perceived, then again, being misunderstood puts me in a cold sweat. I overshare like it’s a piece of scripture, then fester on the spilled secrets while I drink lukewarm tea. I feel ugly in the wrong places, in need of sunshine on the other side of the world, liberty in new streets and long kept buildings, a yearning for a place I’ve never been, a meeting of a different self. A sweet enthralling act of becoming. And maybe I’m just depressed, or hormonal, or both, nevertheless, boredom follows me like a villain, and I must outrun it.