only true poets listen to the voices in their heads

now i am doubting that i will see you
it seems way way too good to be true
march third is too close
i could wear it like a scarf
i thought i wanted to see your dim lit face
but now i am nervous
and i am stapling my fingers
anticipating everything
escalating the situation

ever been anxious about seeing someone you’ve known for ten years before?
well, i am
and you might not even be there
might not want to waste your time on such time consuming activities
i wouldn’t blame you
i have never been interesting let alone stand alone material

now i am contemplating and overthinking
why can’t i just stop torturing myself?
this is getting out of hand
this is over some stupid reunion
this is getting so overwhelmingly nerve-racking
and it’s wailing so loud
like a siren in the sea
that you wouldn’t want to die for
or get eaten alive by
it’s so excruciating
the pain i feel when i relapse
and when i fixate on the silly things

help.
that isn’t a request
that is a demand
a constant reminder that i am spiraling
and that you will never help.
and that i will never regain my strength
to climb up the steep mountain

help.
i am so serious this time
the days are getting longer
and you are getting farther away from me
please help.
especially since this is all because i am worried that you might not come
show up and look me in the eyes
or wonder what i am doing on such a perplexing thursday night

now i am doubting that you will even show
so i am lining this heart of mine with barricades so no foreigner can get inside
come if you can
if you have the time
but i won’t cry
if you only stay for a little while
just stay.

i hate the sun

why?

maybe it’s because i am never truly fully happy
or because i don’t want my ***** pale and wretched skin illuminated in the light for everyone and their mother to see
maybe because the sun shined when i was having a crisis and now i resent his rays
or because the sun is gorgeous and i am not and jealousy can eat someone alive
i am sick of watching the sun rise and fall almost every single day
only a few clouds bid me goodnight
maybe that’s why i find comfort in the gray and the gloom
because i can hide in the cracks and crevices and in the light from the moon
i hate the sun because he understands how much i despise him and yet he still returns over and over again
my family say that i sound crazy
sound like a vampire or something
i just retreat and retreat
the sun shouldn’t follow me shouldn’t define me shouldn’t label me depressed for hating the extra light
but i will still hate the brightness of the sun no matter what

why can’t i be as pretty and translucent as water?
the little tiny ripples
the mistakes
the errors- they are beautiful

when i am worried
the tears fall out of my eye sockets
the only part of me
that i find admirable

water, why can’t i be exactly like you?
melting into different shapes
and sizes
shimmering in the strawberry light?

why can’t i be as beautiful?

apparently the opposite of love is fear
so why do you think running away from him skittishly after he burned you
means he loves you?

my tears could be your tears
f
a
l
l
i
n
g
          ever so s
                          l
                            i
                             g
                               h
                                 t
                                   l
                                    y

                        ­                      different but not
                                              quite noticeable

my tears could be
a part
of the rain
d r i z z l i n g
onto your

                                f
                       a             e
                                c
                  
                                                  my struggles
                                                  could­ transfer
                                                  to yours
          
                      through the w
                                            a
                 ­                           t
                               c y c l  e
                                            r
          
   ­       we aren’t so different
          after a
                       l
                         l