alone on a saturday night.

There comes a time of night in which doubt fogs the windows of this tiny room. The typewriter sits on the floor like a playboy model, and the candles burn, aching for virgin lips to curl around their flames. The old, threadbare couch becomes a little softer, and my contacts go dry with doubt.

There comes a time of night, every night, in which I begin to hate myself. My bones ache, stretching with lonely ecstasy, and the skin beneath my fingernails rubs raw. My jaw clenches and without realizing it, I am curled with my knees to my chest, staring at a broken cell phone waiting for someone to just tell me that everything is alright.

There comes a time of night in which the air smooth like molasses, and time slows. The birds stop singing and the wind begins to blow. My fingers stop working and the mirrors shatter and hide behind doors. There is a silent chorus of “I cant”s and “Not good enough”s, and I blow the candles out.

Because sometimes being alone in my mind with fire in my veins becomes too much, so I take a moment to breathe the air back to its normal consistency, caress that playboy bunny typewriter, make another cup of tea, take out my rock-hard contacts, and hang out in downward dog for awhile.

Eventually, I’ll feel beautiful again. Comfortable in my own skin. Not crawling with doubts and insecurities, but floating comfortably in solitude. Maybe I’ll even feel talented.

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