I wrote to you in hopes
that it would help me forgive myself,
so I could stop cutting down the flowers
that grew from my veins,
watering them with cyanide
and still crying when they died.
Tears haven’t stopped flowing from my eyes
since I decided to find my own life
and I left you behind with the shattered glass
that used to be pieces of your heart
I hoped that these words
would be some sort of key
that would let me leave this cage
that is rotting around me
filled with piles of unspoken words,
melodic verses of things that I should have said
when I needed to say them,
now everything is broken
and I am stuck in my own mind
with a piece of paper and a pen
trying to figure out how
I can make myself whole again.

I woke up to the death of my anger,
It crawled out of my chest
loose teeth
and twisted bones
that never stopped hating
the world that made it.
It took my breath with it,
familiarity gone
as I became new,
someone who felt alive
in place of the pain
that rested on my chest at night.
I woke up to the death of my anger
and I have slept better since.

My body is made of flammable stone
a paradox in its own birth
a wooden crown atop
goddesses in dressing gowns
sleeping to the sound
of fire burning me to the ground.
I am swaying with the tears of my mother
hitting silently as they fall,
everything that made me special
also put me up in flames.
What a sight,
all this destruction
pillars of smoke around my teeth,
rosy cheeks as I’m lowered into the grave
because it is I
and I am one
with the great Notre Dame

I breathe in sadness
like an addict
who has only been clean long enough
to know how much it hurts
to lose what once made you feel
more than you had in years
each sigh brings me deeper
drowning under the pain
until all I can remember the next day
is the smell of my tears on my pillowcase
and how much my bones ached
under the idea that I would never be clean again
looking for my next escape
as soon as the weight
eased off of my veins
and let some of the light in
that burned my throat
as it tried to bring me out
I am what I vowed not to be,
an addict to my own sadness

When I drink coffee
I get enough energy
to think about something other than sleep,
loneliness creeps out of its hiding place
and into the light
crushing hope with every move it makes
my fingers shudder as I begin
to want to die
a hollowness engulfs my chest
and I feel more alone
than I ever did
when I couldn’t keep my eyes open
wide enough to see
just how sad I truly was
and I tell myself
that I will never do this to myself again
but ultimately I do
when the tiredness makes my bones ache
and rattle against my skin
I’ll take a sip
that leads me into a different kind
of oblivion

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.