You said, “I don’t know if fear is a good enough reason to lose someone you care about you cut people out as if they are nothing, an ingrown memory of something you were too paralyzed by to try to explore and you know that you are drowning in an ocean that you filled with your own insecurities but there are people that are trying to help you swim you ignore every lifesaver they throw because you are too afraid that they will drown too it doesn’t work like that there is a way that you can be happy and still survive you don’t have to suffocate with the expectation that you need to be alone because being alone only makes you more scared and everyone around you thinks that you are okay with being lonely even though it is eating you from the inside I know that living is hard for you, you put out the light that would guide you home a long time ago, but that doesn’t mean that flame can’t be created again” I smiled knowing everything you said was right and still, I walked away.
My professor told me,”write every day”. How do I write every day when my body feels like it’s sinking. Two dark moons are pushing in on my skull, and I think it’s okay. My halo was lost long ago and sometimes I can feel the weight of where it used to be. I am a stranger to writing. It was who I was when I was broken, and then again when I was whole, but I’ve landed in purgatory where I am close to nothing. I have found myself without words in my throat, where rivers of thoughts used to occupy my mind. Now I see barren fields of nothingness, where plentiful poems used to grow. “Write every day” as if putting down words were easy, as if getting out of bed were any easier, as if loving myself enough to keep myself sane was something that seemed like it was possible. It’s not and it doesn’t. Writing means hope and hope means finding a way out, and that means feeling enough to hurt, and I don’t know if I’m ready for that. Hurting means I might be okay, so instead, I write only when I’m near breaking, just a little, and definitely not every day.
The moment I realized I could be more than my past I found the key that unlocked the door that was holding back my potential, wings made of sunshine and a halo that burned just as bright my soul finding the light that almost forgot its existence old fingers turned new and years of sorrow transformed into something that felt more real more alive than my own heart had felt in 10 years there was a change that broke open my veins cracking my ribcage as it took flight towards something different than the ash and dark it was trapped in and a longing crawled out past my teeth that were no longer fangs and that longing was for life something that I forgot that I had and never expected to feel again
When I learned to love others, I stopped loving myself. I gave all that I had to people who never cared enough to deserve it and I lost myself in the process. I became an empty vessel of who I was and was more hollow than I had ever been. I was a mannequin of what people thought I should be. You learn a lot when you become nothing. When you are empty to yourself and the world and nothing seems like it will bring you back. Eventually, you find something that teaches you that loving yourself first will always be worth your time. Learning this is how you survive.
It's that every time I look in the mirror I see sunken eye sockets and memories of someone I used to be. I remember the scars that made their way on to my body, on broken dreams and aching limbs and thoughts that destroyed my self-esteem. It’s the notebooks I filled with words that I read when I feel like breaking my own heart again. It's the bruises I gave myself on the skin that was never quite good enough for me to inhabit. It’s the not quite working brain that lives inside my head. It’s that fact that I can’t breathe when anyone says my name too fast, shellshocked from nervousness that wore away at my nervous system. It’s that my bones rattle in my body every time I think about the eighth grade. It’s patchwork blood stains on my comforter from the nights it got too bad. It's the guilt that continues to build in my veins. It’s that every time I look at you, I fear I will hurt you like I hurt myself. It’s permanent scars on my psyche that I don’t want on yours. It’s fearing that I will slide back into who I used to be. It’s not knowing who I am now.
It’s not that I don’t want to love you. It’s that I don’t know how to love myself.
One day has just passed into another and I am sat in my bed reading poem after Bukowski poem trying to understand my life but I am stuck in my head against a door with no key and no warden for me to bargain with my eyes are locked on what I used to think was the truth but my body knows that people lie with the utmost contempt and I don’t know if reading all these poems will ever make me feel whole again but I wait for my soul to find my body once more and continue to move my eyes across my laptop screen looking for the meaning of life
This is not a poem it is a thank you that is breathing in my chest as tears flow from ducts that haven’t seen happiness like this since the sun started going to sleep earlier and settled into the sky with my heart, this is my gratitude as I look at the words that you say leaving comments for me to read that brighten my soul as nothing has been able to for at least five days, this is my love for the love that you feel for the words that I shared, thank you for taking my tears and making them happy again
I just logged on after a rough couple of weeks and seeing the responses that people have had to my poetry made me break down in tears. Thank you all for reading and sharing your love for words with me. I am astonished and so grateful.