i told you
released the burning words that had been trapped in my fiery mind for weeks on end and i watched them disintegrate in the cold night air between us
and you looked away
silent

fourth day without prozac and i can feel the ancient thoughts of 'pre-medication' time settling themselves back into the holes they chewed out of my brain.
writing this about myself makes me feel selfish. a part of me is telling myself that i am me and all i am is Me meaning my thoughts consist mostly of me but the part of me that had moved back in after being evicted is shouting
'selfish, self absorbed'
and I am confused
because if i am being Me- and me being my thoughts- is selfish
does that mean that I am selfish? Therefore, I am unworthy? Of what, the dusty thoughts are shaking themselves and reminding me exactly what it is i am not worth and i begin to feel ill because it has been so long and now all these first person pronouns are making me (again) feel conflicted i have to use them in order to write my thoughts but my thoughts are telling me not to and i am confused i do not want to be ME i feel as if i'm going mad and i want to dissociate completely but i hate it but i also dont and these stupid pronouns are something so simple yet they are making me lose control and i hate myself why cant I control Myself
I Me Myself My
Selfish.

the first time we met

i was drunk
and you were high

anxiety was present, the alcohol just handing the internal slander a megaphone

i may have cried but
your soft hands,
despite how they shook,
carressing the skin of my neck
and your gentle voice,
despite how it cracked,
grazing my ear was enough to calm my racing heart

and we kissed

and a sense of relief rained down on my being

for me, it was love

the stillness of that morning still haunts me
the moment of conciousness and the whole world just feeling off balance is something i had never experienced before,
knowing something was wrong and having that inkling of unshakable doubt
was terrifying

then the phone rang
and the fog of doubt
seemed to condense


the waiting was hardest,
sitting across the kitchen with an anxious mother,
nothing but the out of time ticking of an old clock on the wall keeping us present

the gentle opening and closing of the door
hesitant footsteps as my uncle entered the room,
bad news surrounding his being like a black cloud.
my grandmother turned as if in slow motion

the liquid froze to a solid along with my heart
as the distressed cries of a grieving mother
echoed around the small room.