These things happen I suppose.
They always happen.
I used to care about something, you know.
I did.
I used to feel something when I stared at the sky.
Now the hardwood feels cold under my feet,
and my lungs have lost their warmth.
The clouds eat me whole as I walk home.
They smile.
Sometimes I do too.
But I've wandered too far this time,
these steps don't look familiar.
Someone still sleeps inside this house,
but it's not me.
Someone still lives inside these bones,
but it's not me.

I drove past your house yesterday
and wondered if you still remember
how I look,
sound,
feel.
Foolish, I know.
It's so beautifully arrogant though,
how you still demand to be felt.

There's a faded scar on my right shoulder
from three summers ago,
two more on my left from this winter.
One on my chin from the pavement
that got the better of an 8 year old
who couldn't say "no",
and another on my wrist
to remind me that metal detectors
no longer find me empty.

It's alright that you left,
but please don't act
like I'll just be okay again.
I don't heal well,
never have.

I shouldn't let it bother me.
I'm starting to think
there's something wrong with my head.
I'd like to think everyone would tell me to let go.
I'd like to think I would if I knew how.
I still write you poems.
Not on paper of course,
I can't just leave them around your house anymore.
I found one in the corner of my ceiling last night.
It had something about the ocean and your skin.
I smiled.
I've forgotten the way you looked at me.
It's better this way.
It's exhausting;
knowing you still exist, figuring out if I still do too.
You understood,
that's more than I can say for anyone else.
Most days break me.
I stand up most of the time
and remember how you taught me that's okay.

It's been raining a lot lately.
I still think about you
more than I probably should.

I guess some things don't change.
I guess some things do.

Writer’s block does not exist,
there’s only uncreative writers,
and those who don’t care enough
to care so much.
As the former,
I will write this in my quietest voice:
I am okay,
I am okay,
I am okay.
Few would care to know,
fewer would care if they knew.
But it is the truth,
and I am in no business
of making truths I cannot keep.
I no longer write with tired eyes.
I no longer think with shaking hands.
I am no longer transparent,
or translucent,
or opaque.
I am okay.
I know this because I woke up today.
Simply that.
I woke up today,
and I am not empty.

If this is honesty,
then I’m tired of being afraid.
If it’s not, then I’m just tired.
(of being afraid)
It’s exhausting.
It’s all exhausting.
Waking up.
Falling asleep.
And yet I do it so well.
I’ve been thinking a lot about the ocean.
It doesn’t mind change.
Maybe I shouldn’t either.
Maybe I should.
Maybe I should take up smoking.
At least I’ll taste something different
inside these lungs.
I knew you wouldn’t stay for very long.
I could tell by the way
you looked at the airplanes, the clouds,
me.
I meant it when I said you’re worth it.
I’m sorry you didn’t rea—
I’m sorry for all the apologies.
It’s taken 8 months to figure out
that this wasn’t my fault.
I’m still standing;
rotting crossbeams and chipped up paint,
I’m still standing.
Maybe I should take up smoking.