Some days I think I can do it.
I am a bright sun, and the way is clear.
I can power through these nothing days.
I am an unstoppable force once I begin.
Tomorrow, I’ll begin.

But on the morning of reckoning,
I am not unstoppable. I am immovable.
I am not the sun. I am a fog that cloaks it.

I am an engine that won’t start,
a system that won’t boot,
a pen full of ink that doesn’t flow,
a schoolchild with a crush she can’t confess.

I am a songbird with a sore throat,
a perfect campfire with no spark,
a jigsaw of pieces with no edges,
a puzzle made with no answer.

Something is always missing.
Or everything I need is right there but it's—
I'm—
just not enough.

Most days I think something is wrong with me.
Some days like today, I think
that I was never supposed to exist,
that I was just a cosmic accident,
or two, or a thousand.

Maybe a star died somewhere and,
billions of years later,
here I suddenly am.
Immovable fog and burnt-out sun,
Broken songbird and defective pen,
Unwanted puzzle and cold, lightless fire.

I am not supposed to be here, but
here I still am.

And I have forced it to mean something,
or at least I have tried.
I believed there is a reason,
or at least there must be.
I squeeze out song and light from my skin,
I tried to deserve to be here
though I did not ask to be here.

But here I still am.
And there you still are,
And that will have to be enough.