underneath me,
i feel the creaking floorboards
snap at my heels
like they're trying to escape the resin they're trapped in,
and i remember where i am.
i think
after all the tears and sweat
and dirt and soap
and cardboard skin
that scratches at my arteries
every time i get out of bed,
where i am
might be the okay part of it.
and i might only think it for a moment,
but i wonder⁠—
maybe the bags
under my eyes
and the scars on my hips
and the calluses on my fingertips
aren't just a burden
that settles between me
and the opportunities
that cut
and bruise me
like a slam to concrete.
but above all,
i hope that this "okay"
is permanent.
and if not,
i'll believe it enough
for it to be true.

i can't help but hold my breath,
because as i begin to trust the clear air,
my lungs only get blacker
                                       and blacker.

i’ve found out
missing the ground
is the same thing as missing the sky.
either way
i always feel out of place.
even when i wake up somewhere new,
i don’t feel refreshed.
i wish i could apologize—
i wish i could breathe again
without feeling guilty.
i hope the bitter taste
in the back of my throat
will go away someday.
but somehow,
no matter how much honey i swallow
it’s still there:
reminding me of how lost i really am.

it’s hard to write soliloquies
when you drive yourself mad