When people tell you that they understand what you're going through: They don't. They have no idea how you feel about anything. If you tell them that you had a sleepless night because of the test tomorrow morning, and they tell you that they understand: They don't. They're trying to calm you, trying to show you that you're not alone.

And maybe it's wrong to say, but for me it is the truth. The way I see it is that no one ever understands how you felt that night. That no one ever understands how much it killed you inside when your mom got angry, or when your cat died. No one knows how you felt when you got your heart broken for the first time, or when you broke your favorite mug. No one understands what you thought when you lost your best friend, or friends.

So if someone ever tells you that they understand, you know they don't. And you know that they can say whatever they want, but it won't change anything about you, because they do not understand.

You say I'm running from myself
I guess you're right
Maybe I am
All I know is that the reason
I hear my heartbeat so clearly
Is because my chest is hollow

I am made up of layers
Too many layers
As if my skin
Was preparing to survive
Out in dead winter at the South Pole

I'm annoying
  I'm distrustful

    I'm stubborn
       And I'm doubtful

           And secretive

Maybe downright manipulative

   But most of all I'm exhausted

Exhausted of the nothingness
   That I float around in
Exhausted of everything
  That comes and goes
    Ensuring chaos
Exhausted of everything and nothing
  And all things in between
         Exhausted of
                     **living

you say life
has beaten and stung you.
you say it’s left you
without a breath.
you say the rain
keeps falling
that sunlight never comes.
you cry yourself to sleep
every night in bed.
you whine when things
start getting rough
because you really
just don’t understand
that pain is sent
to shape you.
to help you grow,
and blossom and bloom.
for those beautiful flowers
that you see drenched in sun
were once pruned too.

The three poems I have made private here are all about you.

It seems like everything about my opinion of you is some kind of private matter.

Honestly...

I still care about you.
I think you're amazing.

Maybe I still love you.
But not in the same way I used to.

I'm sorry I'm not worth all that much nowadays.

I just wanted you to know that I'm going into therapy soon.

Getting help.

After all.

You said I needed to "sort myself out".
Okay.

I've been through a lot of things that shouldn't have happened to good people like us.

Or maybe I was never that good person.

Who am I kidding?

You're not reading this.

Last time you did, things went wrong and now all those poems are private.

So.

I can't even muster up any courage to say "hi" in any situation.

So I won't.

Makes things easier.

Okay.

Sorry I didn't try harder.
Sorry I wasn't there.
Sorry I called you late at night.
Sorry I still remember the circus.
Sorry I still want to send you gifts for your birthday and Christmas.


I...

Sorry I didn't say anything the right way or even at the right time.

Anyways... talk later?

Or never I guess.

You'll be busy.

And I have a therapy session to go to.

You are not your mother
And you are not your father.
Your life is your own
And the only sins
you should have to cary
Are the ones you commit.