No matter how
you hold me, my forehead
always
seems to meet your
heartbeat—as if to reassure me
that you’re still there.
As if every part of us is
alive and desperate
to communicate it
with our gently shattering
bodies.

We’re breaking
but not broken.
Haunted, but not ourselves
ghosts.
The ridges of your thumbs
exorcise me
and I escape
the insanity
of my gossamer
thoughts.

I am from used tissues.
From toilet paper and anything within arms reach that I could use to wipe my nose.
I am from staying in the rain just so that they would never see the tears falling.
(Slowly crawling down the creases of my cheeks)

I am from the drooping old tree in the front yard
Where I would sit and stare aimlessly at the night sky
Whose leaves I can still draw in the dirt beside me.

I am from secret stashes of letters I never gave you
From Ashly and Taylor
I'm from the fake smiles and sobs behind closed doors.
From the "I love you"s and "I miss you"s I never said.

I'm from He has someone better
With yet again more tears
And tissues scattered all around the floor.
I am from endless music and long drives,
To clear my mind and help me think straight.
From the heartaches my mother suffered and being the only one to comfort her.
I am from fixing everybody's hearts but mine.

I am from the old Converse box under my bed.
Dusty and whispering my memories to all those who open it.
Baring my soul with the simple lifting of a lid.

I am from tragedies who have longed scarred my body.
From hiding my feelings to protect those around me.
From not being myself in order to be "myself"