I have no words to write
     Just tears to cry
.
.
.
.
.
Sadness
.
.
I have been alone
      I forgot what it feels like to be around people.

sleep tastes
like milk tea and cinnamon,
wind-cooled
for maybe fifteen minutes
drowning in sugar
so that your tongue is sweet and numb.

I used to wonder
why you slept so long
plaid covers up to your nose
pillow imprinted
with your crown.

now I know
that dawn often tastes bitter
and the remains of the day
sticky like pomegranate rot
when dusk arrives
like a cool drink in summer
I can finally slake
this thirst for something different.

It's rejection

And loss

The slow realization that everyone who meets me expects me to change


I find myself alone

Guarded

Knowing that every time I open up to someone

They eventually leave


And in losing everyone else

I'm slowly losing myself



--and my mind

My mental health is not doing okay.
I’m not doing okay.
But i pretend I’m okay.
I’ll be okay.
Probably.
Hopefully.
Maybe.
I’m fine.
It’s fine.
Everything is fine.

Suppose it starts
with wildfire;
lightning on
your driest trees
or once-loved campsites
left neglected, or kindling
that you'll never see--
it all burns just the same.

Suppose it starts
with wildfire;
flames beget
a blood orange sky
and magma pits
beside black trees,
and all your kindest woodland creatures
hurt and hide and crawl away--
but they burn all the same.

Suppose it starts
with wildfire;
see your landscape
on the hill, sickly scorched
with trees rail thin,
stark beside lush greenery,
almost lovely in how clear
the story of the suffering feels,
and burning's just the same.

So what if it starts
with wildfire?
There's no need
for water, seeds,
when warmth still crackles
in the wood and
you have pain and gasoline;
light the match and you will see--
it still burns just the same.