I buy things I don’t need

I wrap my fingers around my brain, 
squishing and squashing it– 
Like peas on a dinner plate 
that no one wants to finish. 

I buy things I don’t need. 

I smash guitars and pull out
their strings, making words 
to try and create some form of 
communication. 

I buy things I don’t need. 

I’m self-conscious every time I 
walk past someone on the road– 
My sneakers hit the pavement in a way 
that makes me weirder than 
everyone else. 

I buy things I don’t need. 

I pull out individual strands of 
hair in the shower and 
pluck my leg hair with tweezers
because I make things harder 
than they need to be. 

I buy things I don’t need. 

I sit alone in coffee shops,
and look up every time someone enters,
wondering if I’ll know their face. 

I buy things I don’t need.  

I make mistakes on purpose
so people will avoid me.

I buy things I don’t need.  

I buy things and never throw them away–
wallowing in them, 
like some sort of lost child.