My therapist has a
white noise machine
Outside her
office door.

It sounds like a
box fan in the
Summer and a
coffee *** in the
Morning and a
distant vacuum cleaner
All at once.

And you can hear
voices over it but
You can't hear
what they're saying.

I have a
white noise machine
Somewhere in the
back of my head.

It sounds like
radio static
The loose noise
they put in the
Backing tracks of
songs and it never
Shuts off.

And I can hear my
thoughts over it but
I can't hear
what they're saying.

In January I felt so free
Wanting to explore vast infinity

In February I started school
Ditching classes like any fool

In March I was at work and met you
A man with brown eyes and a gaze so blue

In April my heart did sing
With all the love you did bring

In May I felt brand new
******* for the first time in front of you

In June I was so uneasy
Fearing that you'd up and leave me

In July you ended it all
Telling me you'd never call

In August I wept through the season
Feeling like my life had no reason

In September I regained my strength
Deciding to cut my depression's length

In October we met again
Darkness in your eyes did reign

In November you tried to play with me
But your false words didn't drown me in misery

In December you told me about your cheating
When you found your heart wounded and bleeding

There are hallways
and there are rooms.
Roads connecting to homes.
Paths leading to villages.

Vacant spaces brining me to nowhere.

Veins are lines on a map,
we are more than just bodies.
We are unfolded pieces of paper
creased in the corners with relevant urge.
With crests and valleys composed of experiences
and dreams
and adventure.

I have yet to unfold.

Doors whisper,
they invite you in.
So many locks and keys
and treasure chests full of passion
of determination
of unwavering will.

I’m locked and no key has ever fit.

Footsteps are history in the making.
Artifacts.
Proof of the reason you stayed;
the reason you left.
The carved sand along the shore
making you wonder if they are running away
or going home.

I turn to only find my shadow.

Maps full
of all these hallways and rooms
and reasons
and unopened treasure chests.
Missing keys and ghostly whispers
before every door
and I begin to wonder
whether or not I was begging please
to the slurring headlights down the midnight road
or to somebody who could save me.