Light.

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When I die,
roll my body in a blanket of clouds
so I can forever hold the sun close.

My final resting place will be
as I always dreamed.

Light would shine down,
through me, to scatter
shadows and warmth.

I wanted to be your sunshine,
to be your chandelier,
to be your candle.

I shine for me now,
mostly out of necessity,
because to dim this light
might grant a long-standing wish,
and I don’t know if I’m ready yet.

(I hope you know,
this brightness, pouring
from my chest,
will always, always
give you light.)

Sun.

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I lean towards the sun
hoping — praying — to find
salvation in her arms.

If only I could climb a sunbeam
out of here — out of my skin —
to intimately say thank you
for saving me all those years ago.

It may be silly
to thank her now
and be consumed by light —
for her to be my undoing.

And yet, she dances
across my toes,
along my shoulders,
and I am moved.

Maybe it’s because
she is my oldest confidant.
Maybe it’s because
she is all I have left
in the quiet moments.

Wouldn’t it be lovely?
I think so.

All would be bright
and what you’ve come to know as me
would cease to be —
at least in this form.

I could finally be
what I wanted to be,
for you.

The next time she
casts a rainbow across your path
or kisses the back of your neck,
I hope you think of me.

Again.

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I know I’ve said this before,
but it’s all too much.

And I know I will say it again
because that is the way of this.

The world crumbles in my wake,
and I can’t make sense of it.

I’m struggling to build a woman out of dust,
but the pieces don’t align.

Destruction reigns
as I look over my shoulder.

I’m scared;
I’m lonely with everyone.

How I wish I could share
all of this with you.

I’m not really sure why
anymore. I mean —

I’m cradling myself
at night.

I’m loving who I am
separate from you.

I’m holding my hand
when the darkness comes.

I’m facing the demons
as I always have — alone.

Yet, your name
drips from my eyes.

It’s not sweet,
but also not sour.

It exists in a plane
all on it’s own.

Maybe that’s why
it’s hard to pull away…

Yet, I don’t want to
reach for you anymore.

At least,
I know it’s not fair to.

And it’s getting easier
to breathe

or better,
to catch my breath

as your name
skims the curve of my cheeks.

The world is all too much,
and you,

you will never know
any of this.

Without.

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To say I am doing fine without you —
that would be a lie.

To say I am dealing with it —
the lack of you —
is more accurate,
but how would you define dealing?

There are so many things I wish to share,
with you, still.

Like today,
I wish I could tell you
how uncomfortable I feel.

I wish I could talk through how,
seeing them like this —
mimicking the movements of love —
makes my skin crawl.

I don’t know how to forget,
and something holds me back
from forgiving.

When I was nine,
or maybe ten or eleven —
those years blend together now —
I sat by my door,
sneaking peeks at my brother
sitting at the top of the staircase.

I’m pretty sure he told me
to close my door,
but I couldn’t help but listen
to what occurred one floor below us.

I remember
the crash; I remember
my brother running down the stairs;
and I remember the silence.

The next morning,
I noticed the dent
in the fridge,
and the streaks of defeat
written across her face,
and the echoing
lack of him.

I know I didn’t make it all up;
I know that what happened,
happened,
but how can they exist
like this, today?

Maybe it scares me —
the forgiving —
more than anything,
but god,
do I wish you would
hold me right now.

It’s.

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It’s sad to think that,
as I lay here, unable to sleep without the sound of your breathing,
you sleep soundly.

It’s scary to know that,
if you said anything remotely similar to ‘I want you,’
I would crawl into your mouth and never leave.

It’s painful to know that,
even though my love for you is unending,
we closed at what could have been our beginning.

It’s too late at night for me to make sense of these words, but here I am, sleepless, making up hypothetical scenarios in my mind, and wanting to know if fear won your heart before I did.

It’s as if I lost a high stakes game of tic tac toe,
where the prize wasn’t gloating privileges,
but the opportunity to curl into your arms, indefinitely.

It’s upsetting to think that,
perhaps,
we never stood a chance.

Love.

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Why does it hurt to know people care about me —
to let people care about me?

I have love to give;
I gave love to you.
It felt so simple, so secure.

That love is not gone;
it is not lost or replaced;
I don’t want it back.

It exists for you,
solely for you.

Yet, I have more love.
I am more than what was
and what will be.

I am tethered to you,
and you and you and you,
because I give love.

I relate to you,
and you and you and you
because I want to feel,
no matter the inevitable pain.

I know I am love
and loved,
but that second part —
to be loved —
that’s scary.

I’m already breaking from
the love I give.
What would happen if
I broke further after receiving it?

Fog.

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My brain has been itching
for another poem,
yet nothing has flowed
as easily as the others.

It feels like a fog has settled,
greying the landscape of
what was and what will be.
I can’t see but three feet forward.

I wish I could explain the
tightness in my chest,
the catch in my breath
when I think your name,
the smile that persists
when I look back at us.

It’s all confusing
and sad and lonely
and tiring. (I am so tired.)
Yet, there’s joy, somewhere.

She’s elusive,
slinking around in the haze,
donned in white satin.

I wish to take her hand,
to learn the movements
of her feet.

But the fog, blanketing my heart,
brings a form of warmth
I’m learning to sleep with.

Someday, I will dance
in a field of yellow flowers,
but today, I stay shrouded
in mist.

To.

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To fall in love — so simple, with you.

To climb out of love, with you — not as simple.

I’m in a state of constant flux.

Some minutes, it’s easy to exist in this world, to breathe in the air and not feel suffocated. I sat next to an old tree yesterday, brilliant in presence, even though someone went and cut them down. They gave me space to ponder, to feel my pain and not my pain, because, what is pain if not shared? If I could count their rings, I’m sure the mesmerizing circles would soothe this ache — how beautiful to see their persistence and growth tattooed within.

I feel like I’m in a time of great growth, and have been, for 2 years now. If I had rings within me, they would be fat with memories and new knowledge. It’s hard to define, but as I deepen my awareness of pain and of self, I’ve begun to see more clearly.

But, some times, it’s hard to breathe, as if my nose is stuffy with the sickening smell of decay — a body left to waste away, but within me.

As I’ve said before, and will probably say again, I don’t know how long any of this will last. I feel fine one day and as if I’ve been drop-kicked the next. I want to move past *this,* but know that, in order to do so, I need to give myself space, time. I need to let my body grieve without external pressures.

It has felt silly to me, to grieve so much because of you, but maybe that just amplifies the sweetness we shared. I wish I was more grateful for our timeline.

Heartbreak. pt. 2

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Every day, I decide to get up and move my body — to nourish her physically and intellectually. Yet, everyday, I think about what would happen if I didn’t.

What if I simply disappeared?

I joke about it, infrequently, until it hits — hard — in the stomach. Like a blow from a sledgehammer. Then, I joke to cope, to bring the ideas to fruition without action.

Heartbreak. That also hits hard, but not like a sledgehammer. It’s more like hearing someone call your name, but no one is there. It’s like rolling over in the night, reaching for another’s warmth, to only find the chill of a ghost. It’s running down a hill and not being able to stop — running so fast you think your legs will detach from your body and will continue on without you. It’s the feeling of falling out of a hot air balloon, in a dream, and jolting awake with the force of gravity pulling you down to Earth.

What if I simply disappeared?

The jokes, as hilarious as they may be, never sit well once the darkness comes. Their realness, their possibility, is so present when left alone with a no. 2 pencil and my thoughts.

I hate that you know this side of me. I hate that a part of me feels torn, like confetti, tossed in the ocean — I will never get all of my pieces back. I don’t tell people these things because I am afraid. I am afraid of losing something in me by letting people be privy to my inner demons. I made friends with them, the demons, long ago, and I fear that to lose them would be to anger them, and to anger them would be to let them take hold.

What if I simply disappeared?

This feeling of heartbreak is all too real, yet it is not what I expected. I expected more initial pain, like being stabbed in the leg. I wanted a gash that could be sutured. What I have is a small tear around my fingernail. It bleeds, it scabs, it throbs, it repeats.

Why did you have to be so beautiful in your giving and taking of self?

What if I simply disappeared?

Heartbreak.

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This must be what heartbreak feels like.

It’s not immediate, like the movies make it out to be;
it’s a slow process of coming to realize
the hopes and dreams you once had will never come true,
at least, not with the person you thought.

Movies depict young women wallowing,
eating pints of ice cream and crying all of the time.
But then it’s over.

It’s been one and a half months,
and though I have not eaten pints of ice cream,
I have cried. I have mourned the future as I mourn the past.

Slowly, I’m learning more and more ways
I am affected by this shift.
I didn’t know how much of me was reflected in us,
and how much of us was reflected in me.

I almost hate that you are doing fine.
It feels icky to say so, but it’s true.
I don’t want to carry the pain of the lack of us alone,
yet here I am, hunched over with the weight
of what could have been on my back.