I'm going through something
It comes with a lot of emotion and music and thinking and writing (most of which doesn't make total sense yet)
And, mom, I will be fine
I just need space
I need to not talk
Or I need to talk too much
I want to be who I want to be - I'm ready
I'm done sitting and thinking about it
And mourning
I don't want to grieve anymore
I need to let myself be hungry
I will forgive myself even if it came last
I'm going through something
And it comes with... Well, a lot

You were not a small man.
Not quiet, gentle, or humble.
I learned that early—
in the way your voice filled a room before you did,
in the way silence never meant peace,
only waiting.

I remember the sound of you coming home,
entering the front door,
and you spoke like thunder.
Your presence WAS kind of like weather-
something I couldn’t predict,
but learned to live around.

You had your storms.
And I had mine.
And maybe neither of us
ever really understood
where they began.

You didn’t always know how to be close.
I didn’t always know how to reach you.
We missed each other in small, everyday ways—
in the questions we didn’t ask,
in the silences.
There were words we couldn’t find,
spaces between us
that neither of us knew how to cross.

Still,
there were moments,
shared unexpectedly.
A softness that showed up
without warning,
and left just as quietly.
“I feel like you’re the only person on my side today.”

You didn’t always get it right.
But you tried, a lot of the time, actually.
And I see that now,
in ways I couldn’t before.
Those moments
where you were soft
were rare,
but I saw the man you wanted to be.

You made a lot of choices,
and I,
I make a lot of excuses
trying to forgive you.
Sometimes I still can’t.

I’ve grown into someone
you didn’t quite know,
but you helped shape anyway.
And I carry you—
not always easily,
but honestly.
You were not simple.
Neither is grief.
But there is love here.
Always was.
Even if it didn’t look the way we hoped.

You didn’t understand me.
Not really.
I didn’t understand you either—
not the weight you carried,
not the damage you inherited and passed on
without meaning to,
or maybe not knowing how to stop.

But
you really did love me.
In your way.
And I loved you.
In mine.

I turned out alright.
Better, even.
And sometimes I feel guilty saying that.
like surviving you is a betrayal.

You were not all bad.
You were not all good.
You were a storm I came through,
and a story I’m still learning how to tell.

And I miss you.
Even now.
Even still.
Even after everything.
I miss you in ways
I didn’t know I would.

Before you left in December,
I asked if you had advice for me.
You didn’t hesitate.
“Just take one day at a time, sweetie.”
And then, when it was time to go:
“Be careful. I love you.”

I had the longest month of my life, Dad.
I turned thirty and you didn’t turn fifty-five and I still don’t know what to do with that.
I’m just taking it one day at a time.

she would come to you falling apart at the seams. she would confess all her midnight tragedies and she would beg you for answers that she knew she would not find in you. she would cry and scream, it was not fair. you, scared to your core, glimpsed what a soul could go through and you told her it would be okay. you had no way of knowing that. you lied so as to keep her from slipping away into her deep sorrow and late vulnerability. and mere hours later, the sun would rise, and you would never be invited that deep into her mind ever again. you would never again feel her soul. she knew to look somewhere else for answers next time. she knew you did not understand.

you were so used to hiding everything
from everyone,
you didn't know what to do
once someone knew all your secrets.

I would honestly do anything for you
youre the first and only I can say that to
there are loads of things I can't express
like that I love you more than I could even suggest

The one way you're bad for me, and I find the good in it.

I don't want to talk about you moving on
I don't want to discuss your future
I don't want to hear about you cutting off the dead weight to fly free and happy while I fall to ground and break the concrete.

wait
where did you go?
all I can see is your ghost
but you swore that you loved us
so, so, so

please
tell me that you’re still with me
just out there somewhere spinning
even if you’re far from yourself
please don’t let that news hit me

help
I’m over here always angry
and you’d never even thank me
give you every chance you’ll take,
and you’ll always leave me hanging

maybe it’s not fair
I could never not care
I’ll curse your name
while I carry your pain
and a mostly silent rage
god, take us to an enlightened age
not your violent grave

I've never been good at being alone.
Never.
I've always needed.
Needed and needed more.
Why can't I just be alone?
Why is it worse now?
She tries. Tries more than they did. She soothes.
I know I need too much.
Nothing's ever good enough.
It's true.  
It's inside me, and I feel it, and I ignore it, and it wrenches at my organs.
Why can't I be alone?

i would say, "here i am again"
but it seems to be a different place every time i fall down here.
maybe like a house you've been visiting since childhood but each time you find it, it's on a different street, it's a different color, full of different furniture.
i'm in it again.
i don't remember how.
it's a blur of empty words
too much sleep
miles of cigarettes
and a need to bleed.
it occurs to me there's no one to drag me out alive this time.

I knew I was being pathetic,
desperate,
but God, I just wanted to talk to you.
I just wanted to hide in that small, dark room forever, listening to your voice.

distance
depression
desperation

The world always made me feel like I am
too much, too fast
And maybe that's just really unfair
Maybe the only one I should apologize to
is myself
For saying, "shh, keep that in. They're not ready for that."
I am not sorry I lived too much, too soon. I am not sorry I know too well what I want and need now.

i just know i made you feel so alive

i envy the ghosts
who get to spend all their time where they want, with whom they want
i envy their transparency
that would allow me to watch over you
eradicating facades, destroying pretenses
i'm really getting quite jealous of the ghosts, how they are able to drift silently around you, gazing at you, watching you laugh, cry and live.
but i know now that i am a ghost
and sadly i have my limits

I wonder what you've told them about me
I wonder if you told them the whole thing hurt like hell

all you had to do was
look and
see
what was right in ******* front of you

a hollow in my stomach
sometimes i feel sick
a hole in my heart
maybe it was always there
a clock that only i can hear ticking
i wish i could say that i didn't know
it was possible to want something so badly it hurt but i have felt it before
just never so much of it
my tongue wants to speak cliches into repetition madness
my eyes want to cry an ocean up to the moon
my head gives me useless ******* logic

my heart wants you more every day

I am a house on fire
I am a cracked windshield waiting for a bump in the road
I am ***** clothes in the corner of the bedroom
I am a respiratory system full of water


You think your suffering friends never reached out because they thought you wouldn't understand, wouldn't be there for them...
No. The reason they didn't come to you
is because there was nothing you could do.

Don't do it
Don't do it
Don't
Do
It

I run my hand across my skin and expect to feel my old body, it's a shock sometimes
This one is heavier, stretched, scarred and permanently bruised
And I don't know what I'll see when they flash the lights
But lately I'm stuck in the idea that we never fit together very well
It's like pushing two wrong puzzle pieces together and realizing it makes a better picture than the one on the box
"Robin's better than the perfect girl. She's real."
But how many times do I have to make the worst decision?
For once I want to be something... Quiet. Content. Restful.
How sobering it would be to sit and think
"things are good. this is nice. I will never
need anything else."

What if I don't make it to where I'm supposed to be before I have a chance to change it all?

first heartaches
but not an innocent
and gentle
introduction
to sorrow

first heartbreaks
of fists and claws
tearing fibers away
memories of stumbling, gripping
the threads together, so far from sewn

stitched heart strings
together, or tried to,
fire came, not right
but right on time, and blazed through
the twines and lines

first heart pains
not kind or lenient,
or considerate of youth.
ripped and burned,
and drained,
and i had only a child’s blood to bleed.