This is the kind of loneliness you find yourself
afraid to succumb to,
As though not writing about it
means not Acknowledging it,
As though pretending it doesn’t exist
will translate across a void
Will make it stop,
Stop hurting
Stop feeling empty
Stop being an absence
you can’t control.
(it’s still there: lurking, ever-present.)
This loneliness, or grief, or depression, desperation
– this thing you are not sure how to name –
It is like
a cocoon
of desolateness.
tiredness (–or fatigue, maybe–) seeps into every inch
of you, so you go on walks until
you think you will collapse,
and it doesn’t help,
doesn’t go away;
this irritation,
a listless meander
of helplessness
a desire to do something, anything,
to escape this boredom; prison of your own making
to make your self useful somehow, instead of
this wallowing creature you’ve turned into,
braced in the cold and telling yourself
I am not kind
for all the good it doesn’t do:
you do not know what it is you have turned yourself into.
if you were the sort of person who could take kindness
before it became a necessity, a mercy—
you like to think you’d be able to rearrange your words,
just enough to ask for help.
but you’re bad at it.
there is independence, warring in your bones with responsibility,
another unshakeable part of you
you don’t know how to throw away.
you stumble over different words, over
will your read this and
can I hug you and
I miss you
like it will be an answer
but people are only people,
and you do not know how–
there is a lump in your throat,
and you never know how to cross it:
you just want to be better,
you just want to stop feeling like this—
is all.