an ache 
I wish I wasn’t

flawed,

that I didn’t scratch my skin off when I got nervous;
that all my days were good days.

I wish I didn’t cry to the point where my eyes feel like
they’re burning--maybe they are--my head pulsing.

I wish I knew who I was outside of a paint brush
outside of Joy Division and tears,
lost in a labyrinth of paint stained fingers and no hope.

I wish things weren’t done with compulsions:
tapping my fingers, cracking my knuckles, pens clicking
repeated actions causing satisfaction and stress.

I wish I could be more interesting,
as interesting as people who don’t know me think I am.
When all I do is listen to music alone in my room:
Joy Division.

I wish I could stop listing the things that I wish I didn’t do.

However,

the persona of my being makes my head

ache.