This is me, still.

When I bristle, my forehead still distorts itself into impossible lines.
When I feel the lines carving themselves into my forehead, a friend always still manages to smooth them out.
When twilight comes, the impending dark still doesn't present itself to me as something innocuous.
When I think of hunger, I still fumble for noodles.
When it gets too cold, my skin still breaks out into rashes.
When there is a note that seems especially daunting, I still don't try to reach it.
When the cash in my wallet starts to thin out, I still manage to pluck out a bill and spend it on fruit shake.
When I get really angry, I still find my throat constricting itself into a tight little knot.
When I lose my way, I still always find my way back home.
When I find myself back home, I always still turn all the lights on.
When sleep eludes me, I still turn to Joni Mitchell for solace.
When Joni Mitchell fails to lull me, Miles Davis still always saves the day.
When the coffee gets cold, I still throw it away.
When I throw cold coffee away, I still feel sorry for having to throw it away.
When I finally decide to watch a movie, something or another still somehow manages to keep me from it.
When I get bored, I still find my gaze landing on my books.
When I open a book to read, I still fall asleep on the seventh page.
When my eyes begin to droop, I still could never remember where I put the bookmark.
When I fail to find a bookmark, I still find myself dog-earring the page I'm about to fall asleep on.