i sit on a friends couch,
and listen to stories of all of the people in their life.

all of the good and all of the bad.

then i’ll tell them about
all of my good and all of my bad.

shedding and letting go
of all of the things.

letting them slip
in between
the cushions of the couch.

this is how we make the world feel lighter.

i am most afraid of heights.
and the ocean.
and the vastness of the desert.

i’m also afraid of spiders,
and snakes,
and all things that bite.

i’m afraid of drowning.
of being buried alive.
of fire.

i’m afraid of failure.
of letting people down.
of never achieving anything good.

i'm terrified of dying,
and choking on my words
and feeling this pit in my stomach forever.

it was a wednesday.
i was driving to work and i thought
‘it is such a bright day today!’

no i didn’t.
i thought,
“it is such a bright day today.”

the sun's reflection off of other cars piercing my eyes,
something burning at the back of them as i try to look through the glare,
all dangerously obscuring my view.

(stop trying to sear my wounds shut when all i want to do is let them bleed)
(just let me bleed)

‘take me back to winter,’
i thought.

maybe then i can fall apart without also being burnt alive.

they say that some ages feel closer to others.
that memories spiral inside of you
instead of existing on a linear plane.

i can feel the younger years slowly tighten
toward the centre as a i age,
suffocate it until i can no longer remember

a final breath drawn
before a sobbing goodbye.

hurting, so that it can make itself known
one last time
before it slips into the void.

maybe that is why twelve feels like yesterday.
when I was haunted by the ghosts
that lingered in those hospital wards.

and maybe why thirteen feels like today,
when i’m praying for a miracle
to be given to him.

and maybe why fourteen feels like tomorrow
preparing to dig soil to cover him
not knowing that it would never get the chance to touch his skin.

i'm reliving all of the pain,
the aching in my chest,
the short breaths of panic.

it all exists inside me
coiling around my heart and
suffocating.

all the anxiety growing from seeds planted
all those years ago.

and i keep telling myself that it is alright
that he lived
but my mind doesn’t know any of this

because its still
twelve
and thirteen
and fourteen

and it is still hurting.

the wolves are at my door.

what i mean by this
is that soon i will be torn open.
guts spilling out of body
blood pooling and drowning.  

its 4:15;
the wolves are here, pushing inside.
and the moths are in my stomach.
anxiety welcomed them in,
and i can not get them to leave.

i’ll wait impatiently for a text
or a call
that will deliver sadness
on a platter and expect me to eat.

death; he will deliver the aching himself
but first he will call.
tell me to wait by the door,
so that he can tell me that he has you.

and to remind me that i never will
again.

i’ll wait for the details of the crash
or results from a test i didn't know was happening.
i’ll wait for the ‘it was so sudden,’
because ‘it wasn’t meant to happen this way.’

those moths in my stomach are telling me
that death is about to start knocking.

that he will bring the wolves
because they are about to tear me                                a  p   a    r     t.

i spend a lot of money on flowers.

give me a minute to explain myself here:

every saturday morning i wake up early.
hours before work.
and most times, minutes before the sun rises.  
i’ll shower,
put a very small amount of effort into my appearance,
(because it is morning).
(because who really cares anyway).
and i’ll drive myself to the markets
that wait approximately four songs away from my house.

i won't be there for long.
(i am never there for long).

i’ll pick up some treats
for my dog (who was not thrilled with the early morning wake up)
as an apology for the interruption to her sleep.
and then i’ll carry myself to the buckets of flowers.

i’ll stand there and decide, for a few delicate moments.

i’ll ask him for ranunculus.
i’ll tell him that
i like the way they open,
and how delicate they are,
and how a single touch can have them falling apart.

he’ll agree
tell me that ‘softness is beautiful’
(this petal he gives for free)
and i’ll store that in my pocket until i need it.

i’ll think about how
i can not control much.
but i can control the flowers my vases hold.

so what i am trying to say is
i’d spend any amount of money to be able to hold something.
to be able to say,
“i chose this.”
instead of letting something be chosen for me.

i wish i could take the art off the walls,
and the moon from the sky,
and brew it like tea.

add boiling water and simmer the world down
so it is just sweetness.

i wish i could take a sip of it,
early in the morning,
before the chaos begins to rise with the sun.

a sip at lunch
a reminder of the world's beauty.

and a sip at dinner, just before bed
to wash away the day.

(it would taste like freedom)
(it would taste like peace)