Down in dumps.

And I am thirteen again, maybe from a couple yesterday's ago, or maybe I've never really out of that hell age number. I spent my 18th birthday under the assumption that it might not come back if I tear the past and gulp it down like I could turn to be my own preferred color. I saw the white flag that night within myself, waving high that it was done and put me back to down in dumps, you see me that day smothered in cayenne pepper, I tried to take the used patchwork where people put them on the floor as their doormats. I never used to believe that history could repeat itself, not until fast forward fifteen years and I still wake up to smoke alarms, sometimes I still caught myself carrying those names like anchors which I can't unmoor from, and some other time I have a stout proclivity to drag them into the steep valley while I'm trying to eat grudge with my hands, sit, nine plates on the table, for the only one of me. I don't tell people that loving yourself is like playing piano for someone who can't hear, that it's hitting repeat on anyone's favorite song and forgetting the words, every time it starts over, that it's finding out there's no milk after you already poured yourself a bowl of cereal, it's getting locked in the dark and being told to look on the bright side that loving yourself is like being reminded of what it felt like the first time, you accidentally let go of a balloon as a child, it's drowning without the water, it's the feeling you get when you start to dance & the song ends. Some of butterflies sitting in the backyard of my heart thought of how sad it would be to be shipped back to their hometown but they immediately died in my palms right after I made them laugh now I'm just sleeping with my heart wide open, those children running out and in screaming for help, I see myself jumping off every rooftop in my heart to tell them that it's okay, they don't hear. They told me oh you're so amicable but ma'am I am not kind when I'm hurt, I'm the woman who makes the best catastrophe.