you keep drinking your black coffee
even though it's long past cold
and your college text books take
pretty much everything you own
and you kill yourself over thinking
but that's what you're paying to do
you take a walk but you hold your breath
everyone's a sinner but you feel like
you're more of a peddler than
you meant to be
but your professors don't give you feedback
on those crappy paintings littering
the walls of your dorm
because they don't want to know what
they'll find if they move
you bargain that you'll "figure it all out
later"
but you're not so sure anymore
and you keep reassuring your mother
that her "frail heart is worrying too much"
and that you're doing what you wanted
to do
even though you kind of wish she would
make you come back home
and send you to the corner
of everything you've done right
your fingers are calloused and shaky now
but you pretend not to notice
because you're afraid that if you identify
the things that make you ugly
so will everyone else
and you ignore every bit of your mind
because
your coffee sits in your stomach
but you know it won't stay down
as soon as you go to paint