Conversations With Myself

Laying on the floor, I watch as the water rushes down on me.
I’m physically aware of how hot it is.
I’m physically aware of how it bounces off my skin, landing on the floor I rest on.
I’m physically aware of how my body flinches from each drop.
But not mentally.
No, no, no. Mentally I am somewhere else entirely...


I’m thinking about what happened yesterday and an hour ago and what’s going to happen tomorrow and next week.
I’m thinking about what’s going to happen thirty years from now.
I’m worrying if I’ll even make it to thirty years.
If I even want to make it.
Should I want to make it?
Everyone says so, but should I?
Lets not worry about that right now.
How about what happened in math today.
Something happy..that’s good right?
I’m too young to be worrying about thirty years from now.
Let's think about the happy thing, the thing that makes me smile.
Wait…but does that mean I’m running away from that thing?
Am I being a coward?
No.
Yes.
Maybe?
I don’t know anymore.
Just not think about either.
Have I been in the shower too long?
They won’t care, right?
I’ll just lie, it’s what I do best-
Stop. Don’t think that.
No self deprecating. We’re trying to be better.
You’re not a liar, it’ll be okay.
Her rumors aren’t true.
She’s the liar.
Are they true?
Stop! Don’t fall for her games, you idiot.
You crave attention, don’t you?
You like the fact she’s so stuck on you.
You revel in the feeling of knowing each second she sees you, she hates it.
God, you’re sick.
You’re no better than her.
People hate the person most like them, right?
You two are cut from the same cloth.
You’re a sick, sick young girl.
Your mind is messed up.
You’re an attention seeking wannabe.
No wonder they’re all getting sick of you.
You’re only thinking this because you want so badly to be the main character.
Get over yourself, you stuck up excuse for a person.
It’s all a ruse.
Be for real, tell them the truth.
You’re fake.
You’re a liar.
A user.
A wannabe.
An idiot.
A stupid, worthless, waste of air.
Let's move on, again.
Run away from the problem.
It’s what you do best.
It’s why you’re here, right?
Laying on this floor, pitying yourself?
You’re running away.
Stand up.
Be a woman.
Not this little girl you’ve turned into.
You’re too old to hide out in the shower because your feelings are hurt.
You can do this.
You’re beautiful.
Prove her wrong.
Show that her words don’t bother you.
Time to turn the water off.
Time to get dressed and face the day.
Yet, you’re still on the floor.
You’re still watching as the water rushes past, watching as it hits your skin.
How did we get here?
What have we become?
When will it end?