see, astronauts need a certain amount
of pressure
surrounding their space suit
else their body boils

and this is exactly what it feels like at 2:34 in the afternoon when i am too sad to pass my mathematics exam but too anxious to fail it, this is exactly what it feels like when i have gone too long without talking to you because for some reason my brain is always conducting experiments on itself. i mean i am superheating in here, its all just so noisy and so silent at the same time, i mean, this morning i woke up to eat/dont eat and get out of bed/why are you still here and when im around you and when you touch me, i forget when i was so upset about and

i was always told  not to rely on another person for my happiness but you are the spacesuit applying just enough pressure from outside so the insides of me stayed safe and warm instead of constantly ready to blow a fuse

you calm me, you are my centre and my gravity. and i sorry thats asking for so much.

i. arachnophobia; fear of spiders. more common in females than males, why at night you choke on the idea of her fingers on him, long and thin.

ii. ophidiophobia; fear of snakes, fear of being crushed alive by commitment, why in the mornings you never left your number, why you don’t call her back, why you regretted it later.

iii. acrophobia; fear of heights. why she stays out of circuses and away from people like you who would make her fall in love.

iv. agoraphobia; fear of situations where escape is difficult, fear of the plane that takes her away, fear of the open crowded space of your ribcage where paintings of her still constantly hang.

v. cynophobia; fear of dogs, fear of the graves where good noses could dig up the mistakes you have made, fear of a girl who made you want to get a puppy and settle down somewhere finally.

vi. astraphobia; fear of thunder and lightning, fear of being alone in a house that always sounded like both, the stormclouds of your histories always brewing behind flimsy doors. fear of finding her there and having her kiss you in the rain. fear she’d never come back to you again.

vii. trypanophobia; fear of injections, fear of drugs, fear of the doctor who looked into your heart and told you that your shaky hands and bad dreams were a sign that she’s crept into your sleep.

viii. social phobias; fear of social situations, fear of your father’s white knuckles on the wheel while he says, “no son of mine is a ***** like this,” fear of her mother’s judgement, fear of not being enough.

ix. pteromerhanophobia; fear of flying, fear of remembering how long it’s been since you actually felt alive, why you trembled whenever you held her tight, why one day she frightened you so bad that you left in the middle of the lonely night.

x. mysophobia; fear of germs. why you knew you’d only get her covered in dirt. why looking at yourself in the mirror always seems to hurt. why you will never be happy without being hers. out of this whole messed up world, she was the only thing pure.

Tonight he leaves you with a pile of his favorite CDs;

you dream of loading them onto Noah’s Ark before the flood,

along with his 3 A.M. texts and prescription glasses;

he will talk to you when she is not around,

look directly into your eyes, until your heart cracks

and spills into his palms like a weak egg yolk

ready for the frying pan. Do not wait for his little green Facebook

symbol to light up or you will be up all night.

He will kiss her in front of you, a kiss so deep

it could cut straight to the bone like an interrogator

slowly removing a suspect’s finger with a carving knife.

Shield your eyes and turn away;

pretend you are casually studying the poster on the wall.

You will wonder if her body leaves an outline in his bed

the same way a crime scene is taped off

around the chalked-in edges of the victim,

and still he will call you twenty minutes before midnight

wanting to go out for ice cream

when you end up comparing the best 90’s music

over his kitchen table instead. When he looks at you

across this very same table, stare directly back.

Do not flinch. Do not turn away this time.

Let the tidal wave of his stare wash over you

until it drenches your hair

and he wants to comb out the sadness with his fingers:

let him. Let him.

It will take a while to work through the tangles

but savor this last moment with his fingers

unknotting you like needles, before tomorrow,

when he will go back to her again, bouncing

between the two of you like a yo-yo,

the kind that returns to the owner

then moves on to another when it grows bored.