Memories are the stones in my pockets weighing me down as I walk into the interminable ocean.
Where there should be fond recollections of my laughter and playing in the yard,
live etchings of dread; a relentless foreboding.
Sometimes memory isn't a specific scene,
sometimes it's a guilt that envelopes you in a sick, nostalgic way.
A guilt so familiar it almost feels like home.
Sometimes it's a scent that takes me back to the house on 3rd st, sometimes it's a sound that brings me to the blue house on Allen.
It's the caldo de pollo with too much cumin.
It's the shattered mirror on our shared bedroom floor, it's the color of the dried blood on the discolored bathroom door.
It's the sound of me and my sister begging her dad to stop beating our older sister, time and time again; how many times did our throats go raw from pleading?
And why am I cursed to keep reliving it?
What sin did I commit to deserve the burden of survival? What am I paying for?
What horrors has my brain locked away if this already isn't bad enough to forget?
Am I doomed to have the good times become grains of sand slipping through my fingers for as long as I am cursed to roam the earth in this lamentable body?
When I look back, will there only be wretched stains where I know there should be reminders of love and kindness?
I want the “good times” to stay burned into my mind like everything else does,
Is that really so much to ask? I suppose so.
For now, I will hoard small momentos of the “good times” movie tickets, receipts, doodles done in passing and anything else.
For now, I will quietly envy the forgetful.

To all the books I did not read, to all the poems I did not write,
The songs left unheard and drawings left unfinished,
The people I could not meet, the friends I have had,
The love I desperately yearned for, all the pining and hurt.
How fast it all seemed to happen even when hours felt like a lifetime.
All the weddings I will not attend,
All the happy memories I will never make,
All the love I will never get to give,
Forgive me.
To all the pain left unfelt,
The promises that will be broken and goals left behind,
To those that had hope and the expectations I will never meet,
The disappointed faces I will never see rectified,
Forgive me.
I have been weak and I am very tired
Let my ashes fall victim to the harrowing sea as my body would have; I cannot swim.
This is what I have been waiting for,
Forget me.

Suddenly I am but an artifact
My bones are brittle, they crumble back to earth with the slightest breeze
Where there was once flesh is now non-existent
The heart that urgently pumped blood, the veins and arteries that carried it, the lungs that drew desperate breaths, the brain that ordered them to do so; all gone
Let my room become a museum of the only joys that never left me
Every corner of my room filled with something that temporarily filled my heart
The rocks, dried plants, mass printed fortune cookie fortunes, cat whiskers, miniature clothes pins, small pieces of pretty string and little baggies, things given and things found, the empty lighters, the scraps of paper I deemed pretty enough to keep, the unfinished sketchbooks and old paint brushes, the books that broke my heart and the ones that helped it heal, the collage of pictures of my childhood where all our eyes looked so empty, the vinyl records, the small old stuffed animals, the few objects from my infancy, the knives that cut my wrists and legs
Let all these things fill the silence or emptiness that I may have left
Cling to them like I did, find comfort in their stationary presence
or is it better to let it be another closed door, another empty room
Where you swear if you're quiet enough, you can hear my laughter and faint emo music
A room where my cats wander in circles crying out for me, wondering when I'll come home
Make a home within the ache like I did
Let the pill bottles tell the story of me slowly wasting away

I found a slip of paper with your address
It didn't hurt to see it, not like it did when I tore it out of my notepad
I've justified keeping it for "revenge"
on who? your mom? it's her house; she didn't do anything
But, it didn't hurt this time
I crumpled it up and took a breath and threw it in my trash can
It was gone but not really
I want it to be gone, I want to move on
I lit an almost-burned-out candle, the small flame grew taller as it enveloped the purple paper ball
A delicate stream of smoke rose; the smell of burnt paper filled my room
I watched the flame dance while it slowly turned the paper into ash
The candle, now liquefied and exhausted, begged to be put to rest
But the flame desperately clung to the worn out wick, anything to stay alive; almost screaming "what if" and "but"
pitifully attempting to justify its needless existence
I want to move on
Why am I grasping at anything to keep this memory relevant?
I want to move on
Why is it so hard?
But seeing the paper didn't hurt this time
The smoke, like a Phoenix of catharsis, rose from the ash and melted wax
I can finally put it out
I gently place the lid on the jar
The flame that had been so tall and alive became meek and helpless
It's gone now
I am moving on,
So mote it be

I really hope that you understand how much I love you, because I love you SO much
You are currently chewing ends of my glasses, and I'm letting you
You are my literal sunshine, you always make me smile no matter how horribly depressed I am
You are 7 years and 3 months old; I know you're getting older
You're technically a "senior" cat now, and I am so grateful that you're here with me right now
Every day I beg god, the universe, any higher power, I beg that you're happy and healthy and that you'll stay that way into your 20s
I can't imagine my life without you
I know you can't read or fully comprehend human words, but I really really hope you feel how much I love you, in every pet, in all the scratchies, brushies, in every cuddle and kiss
I know I upset you when I trim your claws and paw fur, and when I take you to the vet, but I do it because I love you
It makes me endlessly sad and anxious that you're a big boy now; I know your joints will get tired, your fur will turn white at your snoot, you'll sleep more
I know that you growing older isn't something either of us can control, but I don't know what I would do without you
You have been there for me through the worst parts of my life up to now
I want you to be there with me during the best parts too
I want you to meet my spouse and my kids when I grow up (if I ever get married)
I pray that you'll be with me for at least 13 more years
I know one day your breath will get heavy and troubled, your joints will ache all the time, I know one day I'll have to do what's best for you in your old age; I know I'll have to hold you close, with tears running down my cheeks, and I'll tell you how much I love you, until your beautiful little heart stops beating and your little lungs give out
And I will sob hysterically, scream and curse god for taking my baby boy
But until then, hopefully far far far from now; I will make sure you're happy and healthy
You will always know that you're my baby; that you're my home
I love you, my fat little man

I am alone, as I have always been, as is my natural state
I am tired, as I have been for too long, as I became comfortable with
Only my depression and anxiety feel right
I cannot be happy
I will never be
I am unlovable
I am broken
I am baggage
It is in my nature to want to die
Why would anyone want to live like this?
I drink myself to sleep, I smoke until I can't breathe, and somehow that makes me feel alive
I am mortal, I can end this seemingly never-ending train of consciousness
I cannot remember the last time I was genuinely happy
Is it because I have never been genuinely happy?
My step-dad would only take us out when he and my mom fought or when he would abuse my oldest sister
He would take us to Fontana Park, random Amish stores, Iowa City, Des Moines
All to try to convince us that everything was okay, to cover up the dismay, the pain
All of my "happy" memories come from lies
Lies my mother told herself, lies I told myself
I often asked my mom "when are we going home?" But what a ridiculous thing to ask when you don't have one

I am alone

It hits me when I go out to the porch for a cigarette 

Each drag I take is a miserable attempt to fill the overwhelming void I feel in my chest 

As if the smoke could somehow replace the tender love I yearn so deeply for

As if the smoke filling my lungs could also fill my heart 

What a fraught pursuit;

To try to fill my loneliness, to try to convince myself that I can feel anything but unyielding pain

Einstein's definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results

Am I insane for so desperately trying to fill the hole in my chest with meaningless vices and material things? 

Would it be any different if I didn't?

Would I be any different if I didn't?

I'll never know, for this is the only thing that will never leave me