The hands on this clock just ticks away. It doesn't ever stop, or pause for a moment, or go backwards for a little bit, it just goes on and on and I'm trying to keep up.
I don't take care of this body as much as it tries to take care of me. I bruise it and I harm it and all it does is heal, never complaining for all the bad things I had done to it.
I can't take care of myself. But maybe, if I stood in as a third person pov, I could. I would lay clean clothes out on the bed for me to change into after a shower. I would cook or buy myself healthy meals so I would get the nourishments I need. I would tidy this desk and this room and tuck away the mess in piles or back where they belong. I would clean the dirty dishes. I would put away the groceries. I would. Do all these things for myself. That I can't do myself. Maybe the only way for me to take care of me is to pretend for a moment that I'm not me.
Maybe today will be better.
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