I call and I text, I hope and I pray,
Because there’s no one left, no one here to stay.
You’re busy with friends and I’m done saying please
I knew it was coming, the sound of the bees

You’ve climbed so high while I’m below
And you start to hear the bees temptation in the echo
I sit here and write, while you sit and laugh,
Stuck thinking of times when my heart wasn’t half.

I still remember when honey wasn’t scarce,
When I wasn’t left alone, caught in despair.
When others stripped ur pollen, and the garden bare
I had other flowers with plenty to share.

Flowers so elegant so white and crisp
It only lasted a while- a while of bliss
No
And though honey is sweet and bees are brave
They sting when scared, leaving them in the grave
But when desperation meets temptation ur left with our expiration
So now you’re up there with bees fitting in seamlessly

And so should I because flowers are overrated
Let my heart feel- no longer sedated

And though you were my only flower,
I’m not gonna cower
I don’t call or text nor hope or pray
there’s no one left, no one here to stay.

Am I a poor sister,
for constantly pushing them away,
in for losing my temper too easily?

they'll ask me to check the closet,
or underneath their beds,
"there's a monster".

but it makes me wonder,
maybe the true monster is me.

anthem; my song
plays, and I will
wind my own turnkey.
I'll dance, shaking
off the rust of shame
and regret;
it won't stop me.

If I'm stuck looking back
at the past, how will I ever
see the present?

heaving breaths and it
feels like gods choking
me again, my vocal cords
are strained, my voice
a squeak. Invisible
tears stain my cheeks,
still dry. I'm imploding
and becoming super-nova
or maybe a black hole
instead. Screaming a
whisper:

H E L P
M E

You aren’t the first to come and sit beside me
On this couch.
Others have come before you
And have left their imprint.

I do hope that you’re the last to walk in
And stay.
The way you smile
and lean back against the cushion,
You stare at me and smile as if asking, what?

The past imprints are meaningful.
Some are deeper than the last that sat
Where you’re sitting now.
I’ve learned a lot from them.
Sometimes their ghosts still
Walk in and smile.
Before stepping back out.

It’s funny how well I thought I knew myself,
Until I realized I didn’t.
But without them,
I wouldn’t have learned more about myself.
About what I needed to change,
What I needed to let go,
How to hold you
without readying myself to say goodbye afterwards.

When you first walked in,
You reminded me of them.
The ghosts that walked in
and kept me company for a minute.
To be honest, I counted the minutes until you said goodbye.
I don’t count anymore.
I’ve gotten used to sitting here
on the couch with you.

a kind of love
everyone else seems to have—
soft,
gentle,
like being seen
and still being held?

The kind of love
where I mean something
just by existing.
Where someone chooses me,
not despite,
but because of
the mess I am,
the emotions I carry,
the storm I sometimes become.

Where being me
is enough.