Where do you see yourself in ten years?
Alive hopefully, facing my fears.

What do you mean hopefully?
I hope I won’t get the idea to end this, truly.

If you’re dead by then, and I am still here,
I’ll go to your grave and **** you, my dear.

That’s the least you’d be entitled to,
After what I would have done to you.

I only write when
my eyes blur the words I haven’t written
my hands can barely hold up a pen
the mirror shows someone who isn’t me,
when I’m hiding—locked in the bathroom
or fold myself into bed
only then do the words come.

I wish I could write
about moments I feel light—
seeing my cousins
for the first time in months,
waving at my friends
with too much excitement
but no shame in my smile.

When I walk alone
and it doesn’t feel like something’s missing,
when I Lordofon or Froukje
fills my tears on full volume,
I pass a stroller,
a baby laughing at nothing
and I hope they will never
learn how heavy joy can be.

And obviously all the times—
joking with my sister
until we can’t breathe,
messaging my grandma
just to hear her thoughts,
sitting with mom and dad,
not needing to say a word.

When you see someone crying,
You should help.

You saw her cry,
You didn’t help.

But I was bowling my eyes out,
And she was barely sniffling.