Lately I’ve been indulging in life,
floating through the cool springs of anger,
and embracing guilt like privilege.
I confess
I’ve been extravagant with my fashion,
my depression my style of being,
my style being
beige necklaces slick with sweat,
purple stamps across my neck,
feet fluttering in the air.
I admit,
I’ve surrendered to indolence,
daydreaming and ruminating in my bed,
my silk cases hefting my heavy head.
And I recognize my habits
of cycles bloated with rich despair,
and complete besottment with fermented fear.
I acknowledge
my gluttony in confessions
for the struggle of living.