writer’s block

I can't read my own mind. I don't know what I 

want.

there's an ugly part of me. a hungry part of me.

a consuming part of me.

if only.

if only I was loved

by strangers.

adored

by nameless blank

faces.

then I could be

                       content.

liar. liar.

I know better.

I am well-loved. 

I am appreciated.

but still I hear that

voice. like nails under 

my toes. like gasoline

on my skin. 

it would never be

      enough.

I will never be 

      enough

for myself. ever the

                                             perfectionist.