It’s been four years since I’ve been that person,
Still, consistency evades me.
Some days I laugh,
Other days, I cringe with disgust.
On most days, I tell my story like it was someone else’s,
Those are the days I detach.
But ever so often, I catch myself wallowing in defeat.
I can’t tell if it’s the tremor or palpitations,
The constricted airways or involuntary tears.
Perhaps, it’s the sudden inability to regulate body temperature.
Regardless, I’m cold on the outside and on the inside,
So how then can I be capable of love when love is warmth?