The last 3 letters of the spring

You don’t want to be me
I am a menace
my hair’s always messy 
and my thoughts racing
twisting reality 
scheming my next grand affair
I will look you straight in the eyes and say something like:
“I really missed you. I cared. I loved you.” Yet, don’t you dare believe that!
I am deceiving myself
In truth, the past tense is still present—so very present
that I’d be making breakfast in my kitchen and see her making breakfast in his
and then I cry like I have no self-worth 
perhaps I don’t
I mean, I said: “I really missed you. I cared. I loved you.”
and he said nothing back (again)
maybe because
there is a she making breakfast in his kitchen...in the kitchen I was making breakfast for us
and then I cry like I have no self-respect
I mean, I really said: “I'm just jealous, so very jealous.”
and I was (I still am)
of her, of him wanting her, of them eating breakfast in that kitchen
and then I cry like I have no tomorrows
only yesterdays
It’s all desperate:

I want to be under his skin
I want to be someone else 

I hide in my bedroom
I haven’t showered today
brushing my teeth in the morning—an act of surrender
getting out of bed—strenuous work to let someone go
all a Sisyphus story—if I were him I’d let the boulder crush me—cheating on life like he has never loved me
I am so used to “being” dramatic that I might think I am actually fine
‘cause it’s all in my head
either way, it’s all a mind game—there is no such thing as depression
you just move on; to the next one; you must do it anyway
‘cause there is no such thing as being unhappy
all the time; all at once; a never ending battle with yourself and you are both losing
a win nobody was betting on, and 
he is still gambling against me
leaving me in the buff
‘cause I am bluffing and there is no such thing as being always blue
‘cause “I am a sad person” I said 
‘cause “You are not,” he said 
‘cause “I am…” I said 

You don’t want to be me, trust this

I will never look sharp
even when I try (and I try)
my hair is always a bit funny 
and my clothes are old, or wrinkled, or out of fashion
I keep telling myself that it’s a choice: “I don’t care about this soulless stuff”
but I do!

I care about clothing that doesn’t fit me

I will never look like the others. I am not a clean girl. I am a menace. I am a crazy person. I am a crybaby with sharper cheekbones. I am a mother. I am a father. I am an older sister. I am a best friend. I am a priest and a nun. I am an 89-year-old man dying of lung cancer who hasn’t smoked a day in his life, but his wife did, and damn it, it was all worth it. I am the girl he met on a dating app, waiting for him on the Rudolfinium stairs in mid-June. I am the girl he was afraid of losing on March 21 and the girl he watched leaving on April 6, and then again on July 2nd a year later. I am a tired woman sleeping 14 hours a day. I am a muse, a bro, an insatiable lover
maybe that was the problem—he simply wanted me to be her (insert random)
‘cause I dress like a witch and I curse like one 
I stumble and get lost all the time; I eat very slowly
and my grammar is bad when I am tired, or ecstatic, or safe like a child
that must have caused it…my bad grammar

I can’t move when I am anxious—I don’t leave with grace

leaving is easy
the easiest thing in the world (ask him he must know)
you don’t want to be me
I really stayed. I really begged. I really wanted him to come back. 
I don’t want to be me. I want
to be
someone else
her, if I may