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277 · Mar 2019
words
dt Mar 2019
my words are my escape and my prison.
i pick up a pen and
plant my feet on whichever page i choose,
whenever i wish.
my hands create the fate of dozens, hundreds, thousands
and behind these bars,
i hide
so that i may never face the fact that
all my favourite memories
all my shining moments
all the things that touch my heart
are fabricated
246 · Mar 2019
i found a home
dt Mar 2019
i found a home
in the piercing loudness of the train
a strange metal box that stopped for no one
and everyone all at once,
in the way my feet scurried up steps
and tapped to the rhythm of
a destination familiar yet unseen.

i found a home
in the makeshift river as thin as my veins,
a respite unexpected but welcome,
and in the beach as endless as
the new happiness that crashed towards me,
waves on a cold, lonely shore.

i found a home
in the hallway without chairs
where we all sat, a little dizzy
words flowing easily
from our lips like the spring breeze
forgetting ourselves and remembering each other.

i found a home that i
built for myself,
with small hands that had never held dirt nor brick
and, trembling with trepidation,
i gave it all my love.
it sways in the wind and rain leaks through the cracks,
but it is the first thing i have ever called mine.

i found a home and left it
and i can’t remember why
and i am deathly afraid to return
for fear i may find it sabotaged by
weeds, thick stems curling possessively around
something i thought was mine
but can no longer recognize.
194 · Jul 2019
inhibitor
dt Jul 2019
i can’t peer inside my brain to check
whether my neurotransmitters make the long jump
or simply retreat back home.
but the dizziness, nausea, and exhaustion
tell me what i need to know.
i want to live in the moment.
i want to taste joy on my tongue,
not oval-shaped white chalk,
the clinical blandness of a waiting room.
i want the uncontrollable racing of my heart
and the shaking of my hands
to happen when someone gives me butterflies in my stomach,
not when the prescription isn’t strong enough.
$28.35 and a few pitying looks
are not a bad trade-off for all the answers.
or so i thought.
but this plastic bottle holds no answers,
only the capsulated remains of who i failed to be.
maybe i am my own inhibitor.
is there someone who can tell me,
before i swallow the next one down—  
where do i end?
and where do the pills begin?
are my thoughts even mine at all,
anymore?

— The End —