Like a broken compass,
Its needle inexplicably pointing north.
An old clock,
Its hands stuttering on the eight and six.
It is hard to gather the shattered bits
To fit them back as if I were never unwhole

Sky blue lines
Sole red slash
Crumple, tear, frustration is my ink.
Black or blue, shocking green or offensive purple
Overlap and intertwine
To create another that falls short.

School taught me this is likely a microcosm
For in needing its fleeting comfort, I am bound.
Perfection.
Trading it for eternity, sustainability
It is my delicious poison
Disguised as a tonic, a panacea
Drink it while knowing it makes me more parched
Devour it for breakfast, lunch, and dinner,
Consume it as if it will replenish.

Because it is good for success
And for stress.
Because it is good for fulfillment
And for emptiness.
Because standards are necessary,
Yet suffocating when attainable.
Because what else is there to drink
That will not make me thirst longer.