Stained Incapacity: A Mini Collection

Morning before class

I want to wear the blue jeans.
They seem more sophisticated than the grey ones,
with their clipped ends, stained with mud.
But they’re too tight.
And what if I seem uncomfortable 
What if I get distracted
by the band 
scratching its way into my skin

I sacrifice the blue and step into the grey 
hoping my mind will cover up what sophistication I can’t show 

The bathroom casts a cheap light 
Sterile white across my face, crawling beneath my eyebags 
I smooth a soft cream onto my skin and lean against the 
pale yellow tiles 
and my face dries, looking right back at me

My hair is pulled up from its nape, exposing the back of my neck
A sign that I don’t care too much,
but just enough 
to let my voice lead, not my body 
or my face 

I grab my bag and go 
carrying the notes that I am certain will electrocute my brain, 
throw my body in what feels like war,
and avoid getting hit

Sitting behind The Desk

My shirt keeps gripping my body 

My foot is tapping too much

Tip tap

Against the ground I stare at 
Their voices echo the room, the attention on the smart things

They say, passionately.

My notebook is open with my handwriting 
Suffocating the page with ideas
That go unsaid
That go to waste
A desire forced to retire 

BREATHE 

I hold my breath until they all pile out 
Until I descend the stairs 

Third floor
Second floor 
First floor 


The door is only a few feet away 
Only a few feet until I can 
Breathe. 

The sharp cold slaps my face 
As the door behind me slams back 
I pick up the pace, thinking 
Where did I go?
How could this happen again?

I feel the winter cold infiltrate my lungs
A cold that lingers, that stings 
That reminds me of the pain of inadequacy.
The effort that goes unnoticed 
because I can't find a voice to carry out my thoughts 

The red notebook pokes out of my bag
begging to be read 
needing to be said

How can I write so many thoughts
But have nothing to say

It makes the hours of the night before so trivial.
The dedicated time to process
to understand 
With the moon hanging low, fighting to be put to rest, 
So that the sun can finally rise

My shoes click against the sidewalk 
a noise louder 
than anything I have ever said.

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Dreaming of a Wearable Future

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From Business Cards to Brand Deals: How Patrick Bateman Foreshadowed the Influencer Era