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 not that I don’t want to love you.

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

It’s Thanksgiving
and I’m drinking wine with my mother
mystified that my story could have ended
any other way
not laughing on the porch with my parents
head swimming with love
fingers dancing on keys
as I write another poem
about loving my family
If things had turned out differently
I would be buried in the ground
my parents weeping at my grave
only bones and pain
left in my final resting place
instead, I am resting on my couch
dog snuggled up beside me
lost for words
as to how I can apologize
for almost making this holiday
and every other one that followed
somber and dimmed
by one decision
that would have changed everything