With a rabid snarling maw 
frothing with bloodlust, 
and long skeletal claws 
digging into the wooden floor, 
pulling up gashes of fiber.
Eyes pierced through her own 
like daggers trying to chill her to the bone. 

But she could not be bothered 
with this dramatic fanfare of threats. 
She was too exhausted, 
her skin felt as if it was wilting off her bones. 
Her muscles throbbed with each heart beat 
as blood pulsed through her veins. 

But the physical pain was nothing
compared to the war of her mind 
and the storm of her heart. 
Her sigh exposed every unspoken feeling 
raging inside her.

His lust for violence faltered. 
In the stretched silence 
only her heart break could be heard
and he realized 
he was not the only monster threatening her. 

The ones she was fighting inside 
were much deadlier.

You cannot understand how I feel 
until you are swallowing the scream 
of just wanting to give up 
while telling everyone it's fine 
and to have a great day. 

I'm exhausted. 
To the core of who I am. 
I am not just drained, I am weary in my bones. 
I am depleted in my soul. 
I do not know how I keep rolling into tomorrow 
but it's all I know how to do. 

Every day I gaze upon the tangled web that is my life. 
The map of half charred lives I planned for myself, routes I abandoned half way. 
And every day I try to sort the pieces 
and create something new
sitting in the rubble of lives half lived, 
half dreamt to reality. 
But getting nowhere.

But please don't worry about me. 
I've survived a hundred battles 
and they tell me my resilience is part of what makes me special. 
I would give anything 
to not have to be strong just once. 
But some people are born to fight. 

So please do not pretend you understand 
until the smile of being okay starts to crack 
and all they can say is 
"You look tired".

When I tell my therapist 
I'm writing eulogies in my sleep,
trying to piece together 
the perfect slideshow of pictures. 
Ones that show all the best parts, 
the parts everyone loves and admires. 
The things I love and admire.
She tells me they call that 
"Anticipatory grief".

I tell her,
I'm praying to a God I've never really believed in but have always been too much of a coward 
to claim doesn't exist at all. 
Maybe I'm praying to someone else's God 
when I beg "angel numbers" to heal 
with unspoken pleas to the universe. 

I tell her,
I'm signing papers to make decisions
I don't want to make,
should that become necessary.
I'm looking up environmentally friendly ways 
to bury someone 
because we always preferred the idea of 
returning to the Earth again. 

I tell her,
I'm horrified I'm thinking of any of this, 
terrified that dwelling will speed up some 
unseen clock I'm powerless to slow down. 
Like a final ******* from the universe, 
like one big cosmic karmic joke. 

I tell her,
I'm begging for a miracle, 
hoping if I'm attentive enough, 
if I am there enough, 
if I'm willing to sacrifice myself enough 
somehow I will be able to change things. Somehow I will be able to fix it. 


She tells me, 
that's normal.

I’m lying in bed burying myself under pillows and blankets, 

hoping if I tunnel far enough I’ll find Narnia or Wonderland; Hell, Middle Earth would do. 

I didn’t always want to run away but it seems that’s all I can think of these days.

This place has never felt like home, I’ve never felt like I belong.

I’ve always felt more like a flower growing where flowers shouldn’t be able to bloom.

Too delicate for my surroundings but resilient enough to keep sprouting each year.

I dream of the day I don’t have to be resilient anymore,

but they tell me my beauty comes from my strength.

I hope I’m radiant because some days my petals feel awfully thin.

We'll chase eternity
Spinning together at the center of our galaxy
In awe of the universe
and how despite its vastness
We collided in a supernova
of endless lifetimes
Where we searched the heavens
and searched the Earth
to find the atoms that seamlessly became interwoven
from spending infinite forevers
being side by side.

I used to be well.

Medicate to sleep at night,
don’t worry my name is on the bottle.
Caffeinate to face the day,
procrastinate everything.

Beyond the corner where my Zoom calls take place
my apartment is a disaster.
Let’s not discuss how garbage will sometimes sit at my back door
in piles of ‘No Contact Delivery’.

I used to be well.

Dining out seems exhausting,
“the movies cost too much.”
Screams the combined 100-dollar bill to sit at home and stream.

I used to be well.

The days run together
Simultaneously faster
and like watching molasses run uphill.

I used to be well.

When she needs me I know. 
It's a frantic action, 
a silent plea. 
What we have is private, 
it's more intimate than it has right to be. 
We used to hide under the covers 
with all the lights out 
and I'd give her what she needed. 
Sweet nothings 
have never really been her style.
She's more of a hard and fast girl, 
she wants to feel not think. 
I get her heart pumping 
and let her move with me. 
Fluid motion 
quickly will have us all over the room.
She rarely opens her eyes 
but she doesn't need to see, 
her fingers will deftly navigate me. 
The tension will roll off her 
and she'll crash backwards with a smile. 
When she needs me again 
I'll be where she left me, 
wrapped in silicone *******, 
and we'll pick up where we left off, 
the next time she hits play.