I can count on a single hand
the number of times words
have made me cry. Not angry words, shouted

from shuttered faces and bitter hearts.
Not heartfelt words, whispered fervently
or pulled out of someone's mouth

by sheer force of need. The written word
has always held me in thrall, and yet
many words have always been required

to even come close to making me weep.
Your poems are a fraction of the length of books
that have touched me and thousands of lines shorter

than scenes that have made my tears
flow like water, until I tasted their salt, fresh
upon my lips. Your poems contain

an iota of the so-called literary genius
great authors possess, and less planning than their great works
of prose. But your poems are pain,

presented as gifts, doorways into your world.
I could count on a single hand
the number of times words had made me cry

until I read your poetry.

Rock bottom isn't a place but
A state of mind, and
Mental illnesses linger in
The nooks and crannies of your mind
Depression always present
Wreaking havoc on your days
Anxiety a crippling punishment
Filling this life with pain
Never sleeping, because the nightmares
Have grown to loud at night
Eyes open, stare at the ceiling
Unsure if you can continue the fight

I'm sorry that I got saltwater all over your shoulder
and that I clung to you like I was a
jungle animal and you were a tree.

I can't help it if my mascara isn't waterproof
and sticks to my face
making me look
like a raccoon.

And even though my eyes turn a stunning shade of sea-foam,
I hate this.

I hate that I can't breathe.
It's like my chest collapses like a stubborn child,
and the only way it comes back up
is if you feed it all the pain and sorrow you so
willingly vomited out in the first place.

I hate how my face gets all red and wet
and no matter how hard I try,
I won't dry off.

Looking like a raccoon isn't half bad,
but looking like the
reflection of the state your heart is in
is a different story.

I hate that my eyes burn and my face feels
raw from all of the attempts to dry it off.

I hate that when someone asks me, "Are you okay?"
my eyes decide to flood like a broken dam
pouring over innocent living things.
I envy them because at least they are alive.
Really alive.
While I'm just sitting here
moping over what everyone else thinks is nothing.
Well, my nothing is something.
And that something means more to me
than anything that they could ever dream to have.

And I'm sorry I look this way.
I'm even sorry that I feel this way.
But I will never be sorry that what I have has meaning
because that's all I need.
And that's all I've ever needed.
Because I am alright.