catching a moment
in a jar

and its gone
before you see it

before you put the lid on
you are lost to a daydream.

I wish I was free
A spirit,
A soul,
In which to glide-
Like a gust of wind,
through the world,
Of my own pace-
Of my own feelings-
my own choice-
My rights-
My - freedom

To experience life,
Like its supposed to be,
Not trapped by dependency,
And confined to flesh,
Moving so slowly -
Living for others,
Instead of myself

To do as I wish,
Fly with the birds ,
Explore other lives,
Among the pink and orange of the sky

Of which a life I can only dream,
Full of happiness,
-Serenity,
In my dreams I will come to you,
So don’t forget me,
My place of comfort,
Forever held in my mind

-JJ
01/03/25

is it always this loud,  
         or have i just started     listening?

the air        pulses—  
      not from sound,  
               but from        expectation.  

      what if i forget how to breathe  
            without someone watching?  
     what if i already have?  

the ceiling sweats.  
      the walls lean in.  
           does the room know  
              i’m trying not to fall apart?

my skin        buzzes,  
         not from fear,  
                 but from      waiting for it.  
       for the sharp thing,  
                   the wrong word,  
                        the slow blink that ruins everything.  

why does silence feel like accusation?  
      why do voices sound      like mirrors?

       i blink,  
            and the world repositions—  
       not violently,  
              just enough to unseat me.  

          the chair shifts under my weight.  
     am i too much again?  
                or is it just the thought of being seen  
                         that makes me so?  

every word i speak  
         frays at the edges,  
     like it's trying to escape me mid-sentence.  
            are they still listening?  
                  were they ever?

    my heartbeat stutters—  
         not in fear,  
               but in     anticipation  
                        of fear.  

      there is no danger here.  
            then why does the door  
                 look like a verdict?

i want to ask for help,  
         but the words feel  
                  like spilled glass—  
                         how do you pick them up  
                                 without bleeding?  

         and if i’m always breaking,  
     who would stay long enough  
           to gather the pieces?

        how much of this  
              is just being alive?  
        and how much  
                is whatever i’ve become  
                       while trying to hide it?

     what is the name for this feeling—  
             not drowning,  
                   not burning,  
                        just shaking  
                              beneath still water?


       when does the body  
             stop mistaking its own breath  
                        for danger?

how easy  
           it must be  
                       to be  
             nothing.  

        to drift  
               like smoke—  
         unheld,  
                      unnamed,  
        unmade,  
    ­           uncalled.  

        no voice  
                     to strain,  
       no weight  
            to carry,  
                     no name  
         to answer to,  
                     no history  
    to betray,  
                  no body  
         to mourn  
                            in the morning.  

               the wind  
        does not cry  
                         when it leaves  
         the room.  

            the shadow  
    does not grieve  
                        its blur.  

                 even dust  
       learns  
                       to settle.  

       even echoes  
                  give up  
         without needing  
                               farewell.  

       i envy  
                    the pebble—  

                  tossed  
                           ­ into the dark,  
          resting  
                  without memory,  
                              without meaning,  
                     without fear  
                                     of being seen.  

             forgotten,  
                            yet  
              whol­e.  


     there is  
                        a kind of mercy  
             in the void—  

                         a hush  
                  where burden  
                                cannot bloom,  

            a place  
                    where shame  
                                 has no shape,  

         no mirrors  
                          to reflect,  
      no mouths  
                   to mock,  
              no eyes  
                          to measure  
         the quiet  
                     out of me,  

     no hands  
                  to hold,  
           then release,  
                        then forget.  


just  
              the still.  
         just  
                the silence  
                          that never  
                                 has  
                                    to end.  


        i would fold  
               into that hush,  
                           slip  
              into the unseen,  
                       unspool  
             this thread  
                              of self,  

             let it vanish  
                              between  
               the floorboards—  

                              like spilled  
                       water,  
           like breath,  
                            like light  
                    when the door  
                                is closed.  


            would i  
                      finally  
           feel  
                         peace?  


      or would i  
                 only  
                        miss  
               the ache—  


              the ache  
                        that meant  
                               i was  
                       here,  

                    that someone  
                  might’ve known  
                                 i was  
                          real  
                          ­  enough  
                        to hurt.  


                       but still—  


          how light  
                        it must feel  
            to be  
                    nothing  
                            at­ all.