There are only small pains, now.
Paper cuts, hangnails,
sore arms from trash bags too heavy.
It is strange to be so free.
One grows used to the darkness,
the light, blinding.
I blink, my eyes dry,
I feel my pulse in my lips--
it feels strange.
I stare at the ceiling,
your memory resting on my chest,
lining the gap I want to fill,
but my hands lie empty.

Little does he know
That while he thinks he is doing well
That he is moving on
He will soon know the truth
That loving others is just a facade to distract himself
From dealing with moving on from what happened
It will hit him
One night, it will hit him
While he is laying alone in his bed, he will know
He will think of a joke or a memory that will knock him back in time
Back to square one
He will have to start all over again
Trying to claw his way back into reality
One where together doesn't belong
Perhaps he won't feel it
But I am expecting that he will
He will know that she isn't truly erased from his mind
On one lonely night not too far from now
Because he doesn't know that when you love someone else
When all the pink clouds and sparkles are gone
Is when you understand your true feelings

he once told me that sometimes,
survival can be its own death sentence.
we are capable of withstanding
enormous trauma. we are capable
of breathing through it.
we still get up in the morning
and pretend that time will heal us
(but know it won't),
we get dressed and read the papers
and drink cups of coffee
and then we go to work,
acting like we still have something
to live for, acting like we should
be grateful to still be alive.
we do what's expected of us
and fake smiles and make empty
promises and resort to prayer
but nothing holds any significance.
"sometimes survival can be its own
death sentence", he said.
we're alive, yes;
but what's the point.

am I not nice enough