I have written so much poetry about you 
that you will forever be living, 
among the pages of my notebooks,
with the greatest loves 
and sorrows of my life. 

And it's funny, 
in the way that it isn't funny at all, 
that you are both. 

I'll never regret the time I spent 
falling in love with you, 
loving you, 
being loved by you.

Knowing how it ends, 
I'd do it all over again.

For one more minute 
trapped in your gaze,
for a flash of your knowing smile, 
I would do it all again.

So now I fill my pages 
with future plans we made, 
ones I've had to let go of. 
I fill my pages 
with memories that I tightly hold on to. 
I fill my pages 
with our story so that it will never die. 

My pages overflow 
with love 
whose name gets read as loss. 
And among them you will live forever.

With a rabid snarling maw 
frothing with bloodlust, 
and long skeletal claws 
digging into the wooden floor, 
pulling up gashes of fiber.
Eyes pierced through her own 
like daggers trying to chill her to the bone. 

But she could not be bothered 
with this dramatic fanfare of threats. 
She was too exhausted, 
her skin felt as if it was wilting off her bones. 
Her muscles throbbed with each heart beat 
as blood pulsed through her veins. 

But the physical pain was nothing
compared to the war of her mind 
and the storm of her heart. 
Her sigh exposed every unspoken feeling 
raging inside her.

His lust for violence faltered. 
In the stretched silence 
only her heart break could be heard
and he realized 
he was not the only monster threatening her. 

The ones she was fighting inside 
were much deadlier.

You cannot understand how I feel 
until you are swallowing the scream 
of just wanting to give up 
while telling everyone it's fine 
and to have a great day. 

I'm exhausted. 
To the core of who I am. 
I am not just drained, I am weary in my bones. 
I am depleted in my soul. 
I do not know how I keep rolling into tomorrow 
but it's all I know how to do. 

Every day I gaze upon the tangled web that is my life. 
The map of half charred lives I planned for myself, routes I abandoned half way. 
And every day I try to sort the pieces 
and create something new
sitting in the rubble of lives half lived, 
half dreamt to reality. 
But getting nowhere.

But please don't worry about me. 
I've survived a hundred battles 
and they tell me my resilience is part of what makes me special. 
I would give anything 
to not have to be strong just once. 
But some people are born to fight. 

So please do not pretend you understand 
until the smile of being okay starts to crack 
and all they can say is 
"You look tired".

When I tell my therapist 
I'm writing eulogies in my sleep,
trying to piece together 
the perfect slideshow of pictures. 
Ones that show all the best parts, 
the parts everyone loves and admires. 
The things I love and admire.
She tells me they call that 
"Anticipatory grief".

I tell her,
I'm praying to a God I've never really believed in but have always been too much of a coward 
to claim doesn't exist at all. 
Maybe I'm praying to someone else's God 
when I beg "angel numbers" to heal 
with unspoken pleas to the universe. 

I tell her,
I'm signing papers to make decisions
I don't want to make,
should that become necessary.
I'm looking up environmentally friendly ways 
to bury someone 
because we always preferred the idea of 
returning to the Earth again. 

I tell her,
I'm horrified I'm thinking of any of this, 
terrified that dwelling will speed up some 
unseen clock I'm powerless to slow down. 
Like a final ******* from the universe, 
like one big cosmic karmic joke. 

I tell her,
I'm begging for a miracle, 
hoping if I'm attentive enough, 
if I am there enough, 
if I'm willing to sacrifice myself enough 
somehow I will be able to change things. Somehow I will be able to fix it. 


She tells me, 
that's normal.

I’m lying in bed burying myself under pillows and blankets, 

hoping if I tunnel far enough I’ll find Narnia or Wonderland; Hell, Middle Earth would do. 

I didn’t always want to run away but it seems that’s all I can think of these days.

This place has never felt like home, I’ve never felt like I belong.

I’ve always felt more like a flower growing where flowers shouldn’t be able to bloom.

Too delicate for my surroundings but resilient enough to keep sprouting each year.

I dream of the day I don’t have to be resilient anymore,

but they tell me my beauty comes from my strength.

I hope I’m radiant because some days my petals feel awfully thin.

We'll chase eternity
Spinning together at the center of our galaxy
In awe of the universe
and how despite its vastness
We collided in a supernova
of endless lifetimes
Where we searched the heavens
and searched the Earth
to find the atoms that seamlessly became interwoven
from spending infinite forevers
being side by side.

I used to be well.

Medicate to sleep at night,
don’t worry my name is on the bottle.
Caffeinate to face the day,
procrastinate everything.

Beyond the corner where my Zoom calls take place
my apartment is a disaster.
Let’s not discuss how garbage will sometimes sit at my back door
in piles of ‘No Contact Delivery’.

I used to be well.

Dining out seems exhausting,
“the movies cost too much.”
Screams the combined 100-dollar bill to sit at home and stream.

I used to be well.

The days run together
Simultaneously faster
and like watching molasses run uphill.

I used to be well.