Every night I dream of you
Of conversations we could have
Of touches we could share

But then when I see you
All those dreams go away

Because no matter what I imagine
It all fades into nothing
Compared to the reality of your smile

It boils in his chest, burns his throat,
Blurs his sight; there's no way to cope.
I've said goodbye many times,
Each time the fire clouds his eyes.

I'm never afraid, my love is to blame.
It keeps me grounded, not running away.

"He doesn't mean it." I tell myself,
My family, and friends; not asking for help.

In the end he says, "Sorry," at least in my mind.
I imagine it so, each time it rewinds.

I am forever silent in my time of strife,
My skin growing cold, pale, and white.

i cannot fly
for i am lost,
in a world i do not know
and have yet to understand.
emotions are trapped deep in my throat,
caught in my chest,
intangible wisps of half-formed words,
bent and misshapen,
thrown together like mismatched furniture,
never with the intention of being articulated.
we are souls on the verge of being,
but not quite enough
to be.
walls hover above my head
closing in,
as stones crumble beneath my feet,
rocks tumbling,
disappearing
into a fissure of emptiness below.
in isolation
i fall,
surrending,
before the earth shatters
into millions of pieces
of other broken souls,
and we carry each other
as burdens on our backs
even though we are all damaged,
flightless.
the earth is 7 billion humans long,
the circumference composed of pain, suffering, healing;
souls piled on top of souls,
and we are caught,
caged into a life we didn't agree to live.
we did not sign a waiver in the last moments before our conception,
or in the delivery room,
or when our faces were first greeted by the sun as infants,
we never had a chance to cease to exist altogether.
my wings are clipped short,
and i do not know how to fly--
i'm thrashing against the sides of my cage,
my songs of joy becoming tears of sorrow,
of desperation and faltering hopes.
i'm bursting at the seams
that were hastily sewn by others,
people i hardly know.
they patch each incision with torn bandages,
that come undone with each breath i take,
only to be mended again.
we are fighting to save ourselves
whilst wrestling with the darkest creatures that only ever existed in our childhoods,
our youth being a fleeting memory,
scattered by the wind.
it has become a mindless struggle
as they pull you
downward,
binding your wrists behind your back,
as you stumble
helpless to catch even yourself,
let alone anyone else.
for how can you escape from the darkness
when you cannot fly?
and how can you fly,
when you do not even know where the sky is?

-j.m.

When I was fifteen, there were only three more years
until I could leave.
I numbered the days like some people count calories
or steps
or breaths
onetwothreefourfivesix
counting until there was no air left.
Out of breath, out of step, out of line,
one more time;
try a little harder,
push a little faster,
be a little better, a little stronger,
smarter
sweeter
tougher.
Braver.

I'd spin in circles until I was dizzy,
around and around andaroundaroundaround
before starting all over.
Out of control, too fast to ever really stop.
And then back to the beginning again
where I first began,
reduced to less than nothing,
just a slip of the person I'd hoped to become.

When I was fifteen, life was a game
where there were winners and losers
and then people who didn't ever quite make it.
Neither a winner, nor a loser,
neither a hero nor an enemy,
just nothing at all.

I ran around, afraid of everything,
hoping if I ran fast enough, whatever was lurking in the shadows might never catch me
consume me.
I ran until one day, I slipped and fell down the rabbit hole,
past where anyone could see
or hear
or reach.
I fell through the cracks I sidled around everyday walking home from school,
books in one hand,
memories in the other,
clinging to both for dear life.

I was just a sprig with dead leaves and a damaged stem,
no petals or blooms,
flowerless,
my roots growing in the wrong direction, defying gravity.
Empty hands reaching up into the air,
grasping for something to pull me back to earth,
push me forward into the world.
Desperately searching for something to believe I was enough,
believe I was worthy.
Believe I wasn't a mistake,
a surviving **** in a blossoming garden.
Hoping.

When I was fifteen, there were only days
weeks
months
Every minute accounted for
yet all forever lost in one sleepless dream,
in one fell swoop.
Time lost, standing still, forgotten,
my watch the only thing keeping each day from running into the next.

I am not fifteen, anymore.
I have found my roots,
my time,
my place,
It's safe, it's home.
There's hope.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Six.
Time is not forever,
but neither is this.

It'll be okay.
You'll be okay.