when you hear your alarm go off the first time,
and then the second time,
and the third you finally open your eyes to
find yourself surrounded by the same four walls as yesterday -
it's okay if you press snooze again.
it's okay to go back to bed today.

but you don't.

when you're putting on your mascara,
and then your eyeliner,
and all the other crap that makes you feel pretty -
it's okay if you cry it all off.
it's okay to go back to bed today.

but you don't.

when you're putting on your favourite jeans,
and your comfy sweater,
and they just don't fit the same as they used to
because you're not the same as you once were -
it's okay to try something different.
it's also okay to just go back to bed today.

but you don't.

when you're walking down the hallway to your first class,
and then your second one and it's all just as dreadful,
and you can't concentrate on anything other than
just picking up one foot after the other, just getting there -
it's okay to just be present physically for today, if that's all you can manage.
but maybe, it would be okay if you just went back to bed today.

but you don't.

when you get home and your mom calls you for dinner,
once, twice, and three times,
but you're just not hungry and you're not sure you can
keep up the stone face you've been wearing all day -
it's okay to ask her to save some for you to have later.
just go back to bed, just give yourself some room to breathe.

but  you don't.

every day, you fight the same battle.
and if it feels like you're not making any progress,
just remember that you didn't go back to bed -
and you could have -

**but you didn't.

Twenty-one: they called me in the middle of the night, the hospital smelled stale, like death and frustration and hope. Twenty-one: the woman who was supposed to cry at my wedding is gone, leaving me with only a tox screen that says her blood alcohol was at least four times the legal limit and the wreckage of a car wrapped around a pole. The police officer said there were no skid marks. My world falls out from under my feet... Twenty: we’re not talking. She’s picked him over me once again so we’re taking a break. She left a voicemail about Christmas but I don’t think I’m ready to face her yet. Nineteen: I’m travelling around Europe when my brother calls. She’s in the hospital because her boyfriend pushed her down a flight of stairs. I’m on a the first plane home, terrified that he’s the only one at her bedside. Nineteen: I’m leaving to start my life. Nineteen: she promises me that she’s going to leave him.
Eighteen: she tries to promise she’s better. Seventeen: silence. Sixteen: I move out without telling her. My entire life packed into a single dufflebag. It’s hard to breathe. Fifteen: we go on a vacation to Disney World - she slaps me across the face in the middle of the park. He tells me to stop being such a baby and grow-up. I can feel the ground beneath my feet starting to crumble. Fifteen: I cry myself to sleep to the sound of screaming. Fourteen: a pan flies through the air at my head. He screams at my brother and me as if he’s our father. Thirteen: his kids have stopped talking to him. Mom told us that it’ll be okay. He left angry and drunk last night. Twelve: my mom found out I like a girl tonight. She won’t look at me so, instead, I look in a mirror and wonder what I did wrong. Twelve: everyone says I look just like my Mom. Eleven: Mom started dating a new guy. He’s okay. His cooking is really yummy. Ten: my dad calls to ask if my mom’s still going to her AA meetings. I tell him yes, even though I don’t know what AA stands for and Mom hasn’t left her room in a week except to refill her drink. Ten: Dad and Mom got into a really bad fight. He left in the middle of a thunderstorm. It’s been two weeks, and we don’t know where he went.
Nine: it’s Christmas Eve. We’re at Gram’s house and the fire is burning and it’s so warm. Eight, seven, six: I’m not sure if I want to be Wonder Woman or my mom when I grow up but they’re both kinda the same so does it really matter? Five: Mom got home from work late acting funny. Daddy said she just missed a meeting and that she’d be alright in the morning. Four: my hand is held firmly on both sides while my parents swing me back and forth. The world is solid beneath my feet. I hope I can be as in love as Mommy and Daddy when I grow up. Three, two, one, zero. I wonder if while I was in my Mom’s womb she wished that I would grow up to be just like her.

If you still loved her you'd tell me about how her nose crinkled when she'd laugh like she could love the entire the world, and how she liked the yellow of sunflowers because they'd remind her of what it was to be healthy; how she was set to be nothing like her parents yet was still fragile enough to breakdown in a hospital bed; her spontaneous singing. What it was like to hold her in your sleep.
You'd tell me how you miss her reaching out for you; how sleeping alone made you worship the summers when you heard her laugh billowing in the wind like her skirts, dancing in the breeze:ablaze.
But time does that sometimes,
You don't love her anymore.

If 3am could talk it would probably tell me all your secrets.
it would tell me the position you sleep in to feel safe
and the ice cold comment your best friend made.

if 4am could talk it would probably only whisper rumours.
It would assume you can't sleep because he hurt you last year
And it would conclude the fluttering of your eyelids had something to do with what you failed to tell 3am.

If 5am could talk it would be nervous and unsteady.
It would look to your still body and wonder if you were at peace, and if it should wake you.
It might ask 6am to follow up.

If 6am could talk, it would try to be cheery. For the sake of 5am.
It might say you slept just fine, and tomorrow will be the same.
6am might lie and have you shaken and stirred for 7am to handle.

If 7am could talk, it would not know what to say.
It would tell me you were happy being unhappy
7am would giggle mindlessly and hope I went away.

By 8am, no one will be talking but you. And you will tell me a mix of what I already heard through the whispers of the night before.

By 9am the silence of the noise will begin all over again, and you'll wonder why nothing has changed. Why 3am can't be trusted, and 8am hasn't saved you from the incessant humming.

I want to listen to you at 3am, not the silence that tells me what wasn't mine to hear.

I want the truth at 4am, and to hold you when 5am can't.

I want to push away the last of the darkness at 6am, and I want to give 7am something to talk about.

I want to be your saving grace at 8am. I want to be the change you feel at 9am, when you hear the music of the world instead of the noise.

do you remember crazyland?
do you remember when we swore the only time
we'd get to hold each other
was when (and if) we reached that mystical place?
and how for years we craved it
and to this day know of its power?
do you remember how we longed for it?
"thirty seven years and twenty-six days"
do you remember crazyland?
where we could be ourselves
and where you were mine
and i was all yours
i promised you
that if we ever made it there
i would let you inside
and never let you back out
"i would take you" "i would let you"
i promised you
that you would be my last everything
i craved you more than
i have ever craved anyone
i scratched at my heart
since it would only beat
when you were around
and so
i tried to remove it
thinking it was the only way
to feel at peace without you
do you remember staying up all night
telling each other our deepest secrets?
now we know them all
i never want to hide things from you.
i promised you the world
i promised you ever part of me
and you did the same.
i promised you forever
in this promised land,
this crazyland,
and i promised you
that
crazyland
would be much better
than
here