Where does it hurt? They ask.
How badly does it hurt? They ask.
What type of pain is it? They ask.
When does it hurt? They ask.
I’m silent.

Where does it hurt? I repeat.
What do you mean? I answer.
Today? Right now?
In General?
By the quadrant of my body?
Aching pains first?
Throbbing pains second?
How about pins and needles?
Should I prioritize?
I speak.

It’s here, I say.
And here.
And here.
And here.
It’s all the time.
It’s constant.
It’s every moment.
And please, I say,
Please,
Help me.
I beg.

They brush me off.
I’m not dying.
I will not die.
I have to repeat it to myself.
Because it feels an awful lot like death.
But I am chronically ill.
Ill, but not dying.
The doctors don’t listen,
It hurts! I said.
But I’m not dying.
I cry.

On the outer
carapace of it,
     all seems ok
I am held
together by
single dry thre
                        a ds
like wire
and strips of
sinews
they keep me
tightly-wrapped,
a package of
molten powders
secret dynamite
waiting to
    e x p l o d e  in
exotic ticks
      of clockwork
but one scratch
beneath the surface
reveals my
inner truth:
How I wish,
by those
whorled and spiraled
powers above,
for the gently fluted
forces of my being
to be parted
like sacred seawater
with my psyche
   f l o a t i n g
just beyond
the zing of
       my brain,
no rational
           understanding
required
yes. I long
to be ever-slowly
           unraveled,
layer by layer
cell by cell
until all that is left
are the platelets
pulsating between
this heart
           and yours
each beat
betraying an
acute intensity
of how
I felt it,
      this tender
electricity
that crackled
        through and
                 between
            our bones
          from the
        very
      beginning
of
    our quiet blaze
our pinnacle
our quirky
metallic
     textures
our breath
mingling over
airwaves
         in heated
                 fluidity
   hotly drenched
in the iridescent
  dust of our
     star-marked
                     time

I lay in my bed and think about you
I love you so much I don't know what to do
I feel your warmth at my side
The pain in my heart moves to my eyes
So far away yet always so near
You are the reason I am still here.

I await the times when we can talk
I await the times we can finally hold hands and walk
To feel you for real... so close to me
The happiest person in the world is what you would make me.

Your eyes shine like a million suns
You shine more brightly than anyone
Your smile so sweet can't help but make me smile
It stops my world even for a little while
I await the time when my hand is in yours
To hear you say those 3 little words.

There are still no words I can say to describe
My heart it aches and my eyes they cry
But when we talk my heart flies
you always wipe away the tears I cry.

Even though you aren't here
And I miss you so much my dear
I'll love you forever and ever
I'll always love you my far away lover.

If there's a way to dig a little deeper into
       a new layer of skin, tap into
something in our bones that hasn't already
       been analyzed and speculated by
doctors under bright white lights on cold
       impersonal tables surrounded by
an army of masked, gloved and
       sanitary conscious individuals-
a method of existing that hasn't
       been romanticized and isn't cliche,
I'd really like to know.

       Because in vicious turbulent cycles I'm falling head first
for things that have been worshipped
       so many times in trance-like
moments of adolescent anguish and
       pretenses of solitude seeking introverts that lie
to themselves cause they don't have
       the guts to do it to others.

Who the hell is alright behind a smile masking a cringe?

       And all the tropes idolized and hymns
murmured by Sad folk
       don't really make you feel special anymore
cause you've lost your individuality
       by stepping into yet another trap.

But then again hating all things has long ago been branded as
       valueless, when in fact
values are the only things you're really searching for.