i was born pure sweetness.
a fruit born from my mother
delightful on the tongue.

you were pure acidity.
a fruit grown bitter
hostile to taste.

how does one drop of bitterness
flood, so deeply, the sweet?
is there any way of tempering acid?
or will i stay like this… burnt?

i’m nineteen.
and i’ll never be able to tell you how life works.
or how people exist.
or how cranes build themselves.

i’ll never be able to explain to you how planes fly.
because i know it has something to do with
****** and aerodynamics
but please don’t ask me to explain because truthfully i have no idea.

i’ll never be able to explain the vastness of space.
or what setting to wash my clothes on.
or how to not fall apart.
or the temperature you are supposed to brew your tea at.

i’m nineteen.
but i am able to tell you that life gets better.
and that some people are good.
and that to exist we must learn to trust.

i’ll be able to tell you that despite trying not to
you’ll still inherit things from both of your parents.
you’ll secretly hope that you are more like your mother
and i will loudly hope that you only get your fathers good.

i’ll be able to tell you to keep going.
because one day you’ll look back and be thankful you didn’t give up.
i’ll be able to tell you that it’s important to learn new things.
and that everything goes down a little better with tea (despite the temperature it’s brewed at).

i feel like a thief.

all i do is steal.

i steal views,
and feelings,
and songs,
and glances.

and sometimes i drive home from work a certain way,
slow down more than usual,
pray the sky is clear enough
just to see the city from afar.

some nights i take a long way home,
just to roam around a little more,
just to be able to sit a while longer in this freedom.
i would chase this feeling around the world.

and sometimes i sit a little longer in my car,
to listen to another song
play over and over again -
just to feel the lyrics echo through me once more.  

and i look at people a little more in the eyes,
a little longer than i should.
let my eyes wander over their cheekbones and lips,
hoping i can memorise the way they form words on their tongue.

the point is
i steal.
in the hope of feeling something
a little longer than i have the right to.

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.