And over time,
My pen stopped bleeding
But my heart didn't

Night sits on my chest
Squeezes poems out of me
And grinds my poor soul

I cannot compose brilliant poems, sonnets, or verses,

and I cannot speak to you in Latin or Greek;

I cannot move you with any language made up by man.

Love is the only only language I could touch you with

If you only knew how much I could love you.

If you knew I love you;

If I were brave enough to tell you at all.

How many blades
Do I need
To sever these connections?

Or are they just too strong
To accept severance
By mortal blades?

falling in love is frightening
it is a cruel, terrifying thing
to allow yourself to collapse into the arms of a stranger
to let them dissect each word you say
each thought, each laugh that escapes
each tear that rolls down your cheeks
and every inch of skin across your body
to allow your knees to buckle and shake at the very thought of their name
and to allow your heart into their palms
allowing them to do anything to it
truly,
falling in love is frightening.

I'm choosing to no longer believe
what anyone tells me about healing
healing is not care or rest
healing
is not sleeping for a week
drinking endless amounts of coffee
writing about isolation
writing about your childhood ghost
and how you've decided
to play your own tricks with time
I am detached and livid
at the assumption that I have processed
anything they've tried to tell me