Spending a month in a hospital teaches you a lot about people.
The doctor that told me to shave my head or she wouldn't treat me,
The nurses that spent forever chatting to me
And giving me supportive advice about how my illness doesn't define me.
The woman who was given a terminal cancer sentence
And chose not to pay attention to it and defied it anyway.
How she sat next to me on my bed,
Told me that all suffering is valid,
And just because I'm not dying, doesn't mean I don't get to complain.
How she complains more about her skin problems
Than she ever complained about her cancer,
And that's OK, because pain rarely follows rules.
I never even learned her name,
But she gave me the words I hold most closely to me
On those days when I want to fall asleep and never wake up.
I'm allowed to scream and shout and rage against the pain
And the unfairness of it happening to me.
I just have to make sure I know where the line is
Between giving my darkness a voice and pitying myself.

The thing about spending almost a decade
In social isolation is you forget what's normal.
Imagine my shock when my friend casually pulls me close to her,
A half-hug, friendly embrace.
No context needed, because touches don't always hold
Some deep, meaningful intention.
Yet for the past almost a decade, that's been my reality.
How rare the hugs, how they only ever follow extreme sadness
Or loneliness, the desire for comfort and support.
How I can never reach out to touch someone
Unless I've done it a thousand times before,
And even then, it's an intentional act of love.
Every movement of every muscle is planned in advance,
To minimise the fearful, pounding beats of my heart.
For someone like me, where anxiety floods through all my veins,
I don't know the meaning of the word 'casual'.
And I don't know if I'll ever learn it.

Looking at you feels like flying*
When i know,
*I am actually falling.

maybe I am bedeviled by thoughts of you everytime my mind slips into the abyss, maybe that's the reason I don't tap into it the way I used to.
But If I told you how I felt, it'd get swept under the rug.

Suppose my eyes burn behind these creme- thick glasses everytime I see you, suppose I hate the silence and fight the urge to burn my surroundings with the heat behind my eyes.
But if I told anyone what I saw, it'd get swept under the rug.

Imagine I listen to music and hear your voice, so I claw my headphones out like they were ice seeping into my skull and freezing my cranium with words oh so soothing as a double-edged blade sinking both ends into me, Imagine a tear escaping my eyes, voice raising in a blatant attempt to ease the pain.
But If I said a word about what I hear, it'd get...... well, I think you know what'd happen.
Lets dig under that rug, four feet by four feet area of infinite emptiness.
Half of my life has been hidden in there: emotions, mental, thoughts, pains, lusts, curiosities, questions, intents, past, present and future, all have been hidden under that rug.
It's stitches are one with my soul because it has so many of my confessions that it absorbs part of my soul.
I trust that rug more than I trust some of the hoes I claimed to trust from day one.
I trust that rug more than I trust some of the friends I've had since meeting.
That rug has an affinity for gaining people's trusts, like me.
That rug produces more positive vibes than power chords produce energy, and yet we wonder why something being swept under the rug is a bad thing.
I sweep myself under the rug because I know I'll be safe there. I know that with all the thoughts and emotions I share, that with that safe haven, I am assured.
I rest under the rug, I cry under the rug, I sleep under the rug.
As it is my home.
And I love it's sincere serenity.

My phone rings at two in the morning, it can only be one person.
I listen to her newest trouble with him and hear her sobs in my ear.
Only when the sun stung her skin would her tears dry this day.
She would wait for him, listening to him lie to her and she would cry to me about his mistrust.
She never broke that cycle, though she was a broken heart.
The next night doesn't change, she cries about his newest issue and how she wishes she could leave him. But she's too close to him to see the possibility of even her own words.
"Leave him", I said, "he doesn't deserve you. Any man would rather be dead than play with your heart." I told her. But she wasn't hearing it.
I was tired of hearing her sob stories, I wanted her to do something to get out of this. No more anger, no more crying, no more sorrow, only happiness.
I wanted her to see a life without him.
But she didn't see that vision, so I had to let her go. But I couldn't, I would always stay her shoulder to cry on and she knew it. So the cycle continued.
But now it's five in the morning and no call....
I take it as a sign of happiness and let it alone.
Now its seven and I'm confused, she would've called by now at least to wish me a good morning.
it's nine at night and I call again, wanting to hear her voice again, but she doesn't pick up.
I call again, in a panic, she would never reject my call. I call again and again until it's nearly eleven PM and she still doesn't pick up.
My phone dings with the notification of a facetime request. I pick up and just stare at her.
Eyes blood shot
dried lines of tears on her cheeks
and her mouth pursed in a way to show she was about to cry again.
She doesn't look at the screen, she only puts her head down and lets out a deep emotion felt sigh before speaking.
"I love you too much not to have you here at this time. I'm sorry, please forgive me." She says.
What are you talking about? what's the problem, why arent you picking up the phone? All these questions and she doesn't answer one. She only puts the phone down and levels it so I can see her. A gun is on her bed now, she picks it up and raises it to her head. I'm screaming now. I'm trying to talk her out of it but she cries and pulls the trigger in front of me.
I jolt up in shock. My fear taking hold as my eyes pour water and I can do nothing but yell and cry.

It's six in the morning, police find her body on the floor of her apartment with all evidence pointing to her suicide.
She was broken. Her mind not her own and her love to one who played her one too many times, she became a killer.
They found her, but what they hadn't known was that she had killed another that night.
What they didn't know is that she was heartbroken in every possible way and that her hunger for revenge grew everytime she saw his face.
What they didn't know was that she was too weak.
What they didn't know was that she couldn't survive the broken years.

poetry lets go
what
the body
can no
longer hold.

What if we got lost tonight? Tell me, would you be glad to be with me?
Because there’s honestly nobody I’d rather be with than you.
It’s just something about you, baby girl, that’s got me wondering if I could know you a little deeper,
If I could be a little closer to you,
If I could be a little louder with you.
Tell me what your pretty eyes see when you look across the table at the image of confusion and chaos known as me. Tell me what you hear when my voice cracks in the morning as I laugh at something stupid.
I’m so numb right now that I can’t think of what I’d say to you, my lips trying not to curl as I notice you bite your lip. How is it that you can’t see you’re taunting me?
Your beauty so noticeable and your purity so undefined that you make children purr, crooning like kittens cuddled into blankets in your warm grasps.
My god, you’re so beautiful. Why am I falling for you? Soothing voice that sends chills through my spines as my body shakes off the dusted burdens of past loves, making room for only you as I readjust my nature to fit yours.
What is it about you, wonder girl? Two years older than me yet an eternity apart. You’re quiet yet speak volumes in your eyes. Sweet and sensitive nature and a Latina sashay about her, yet you see nothing but pure inexperience in her eyes.
Nothing but pure outcast.
We are two, yet we are similar. And I’m drawn to her because of it.
Senior seduction unintended yet ever so real it should be a shame, if only I could get her to even remotely look my way.
She is my phantom, another thought in my mind that might never be fulfilled, another dream at night never turned reality.
Talking in her face and making her laugh at corniness, kissing her lips and looking deep into those pretty dark brown pools, feeling her warmth as our hands connect and her head rests on my proud shoulders.
I will be forever haunted by the dream to feel that love.
To feel a reaction of two cold souls making heat from snow.
To feel the emotion so long cursed and so long denied.

To feel Her love.