so maybe this isn’t a second chance
but what if it’s our last?
so dance with me this time
instead of your bottle of ***** at 3 am every night
and make love to the one you’re in love with
not just for validation
but for comfort in your relations
love the way you were put here
and let someone kiss your scars, dear
you’ll feel better after a good night’s rest
better than the the blade of a razor slicing across your chest
and your art can still be great
without killing what’s left of you in order to “create”
find someone who doesn’t want to domesticate you
and let them take your shades of blue
and turn them into purple hues
your mental state has never defined you
and you like to experiment, as if on cue
you text me at 11, and unable to get through to you
i leave you be
and then feel even worse the next morning when i wake up
too early to make up
lies
about everything you said last night
so instead i write
and i tell the truth
of course, i’ll never show any of this to you
but if you happen to find it
maybe you’ll be flattered to know
that you make beautiful art yourself,
but the art of observing you is something
only i have had the time to master

“it’s us against the world.”

you used to say it over and over, after dad left, after grandma died, after you got out of your first and second toxic ‘relationships’.
you said it so much that i started to believe it. even as a kid, it took a lot of convincing for me to listen to anything. i was stubborn.

but that became the truth, the consistent, the backbone of whatever we had at the time. i was comfortable with the simplicity of the phrase, and it was a way to remind myself that i always had you.

after i moved out of dad’s for the final time, as i was crying over the birthday cake he had gotten me:

“it’s us against the world.”

after my sister had her son, and moved in, and moved out, and moved in, and moved out:

“it’s us against the world.”

after you started getting suspicious that her husband was abusive and that she was stuck in a toxicity you knew too well:

“it’s us against the world.”

after my brother was sent to prison for defending her:

“it’s us against the world.”

you’re allowed to use that when things happen to us. when it’s truly US against the world.

when it’s YOU against the world, you can’t say that it’s US. when YOU put YOURSELF in this situation, you can’t say that it’s US.

i, as a separate person from you, am trying to feel better. trying to breathe easy. trying to get out of the couple of houses i coexist in more often. trying to eat more. trying to live the most simple life i can.

you say that you are too.

but the difference between us is that i am not putting myself in situations and then dragging you down with me.

you have dug yourself a hole, and every time you fall into it, your immediate reaction is to grab another shovel instead of climbing out, and i’m tired of being the one taking the shovel from you and dragging you out.

when you learn to throw the shovel out, or even better, fill the hole in, i will gladly agree that it is us against the world.

but until then, it’s not us against anything.

it’s you against you, and me waiting for something to be resolved.

light me and inhale;
hold it,
hold it,
hold it,
and exhale.
repeat until you are satisfied and then suffocate my flame,
i promise i will not complain,
for this is my purpose:
to be lit,
to be used,
to be put out,
and inevitably,
to be forgotten about.

my expiration date passed long ago
but you keep me on your shelf
sure, i am in the very back
with the lima beans and the beets
and the condensed milk that you don’t know you have
but i am here
quiet
cold
and solemn
one day, i’m sure
you’ll clean out your pantry and find me
quiet
cold
and solemn
and you will throw me out
because i am nothing more than a place holder
to convince people that your shelf is full
and that you are whole

i am trying to spread my wings
i am trying to heal in a place that isn’t good for healing
i am not healthy
i am not healing
i am sick
i am withering away
and i am trying to fix myself for you
but it is not working
and for that
i am sorry

i’ve stopped trying.
i just bump into walls until i find a door,
blindly.
the dull pain is
more annoying than anything,
and i could stop if i wanted,
but at least i’m moving.

i fear that
i’m going to lose you that
i’m going to close my eyes and
i’ll forget to look behind me and when
i finally remember where
i’m at you’ll be gone and that
i’ll have nothing left but an emptiness
only you can fill