log sixteen

I am hyper-aware of every second that dares to pass me in this pitiful state while simultaneously deaf to the cries of the minutes lost to carelessness. I have tied myself to an iron post with twine thicker than my tendons and find shock in that I cannot break free of its bind. Why have I made myself this way? My brain is sick. She refuses to budge.

My heart is very much thinking, very much alive- beating, though with the hesitance of dissatisfaction. I was looped into a time-lapse. I can’t pause it. Everything is going faster than I want it to while I accomplish nothing. It’s funny to say because it’s true that I will never be satisfied. I made progress, and yet no matter how far I leap, the eyes of young Loretta will be creased with expectations the for something bigger. I was supposed to jump a larger hurdle. I don’t need her burdens, and I don’t want them. My reflection screams helplessly enough. What else can I do now?

I want to be. I am. Am I myself?

After so much time of shamefully fastening heighteners onto the soles of my shoes, I don’t even remember my original height. I didn’t measure my stature before I put them on, and now I don’t know what to answer when people ask how tall I am. I’ve made up an answer and I plan to stick to it. Maybe my height grew naturally, too. But I would never know. All I remember from my starting point is that I was much too short. This sucks.