My doctor diagnosed me
with restless legs
and I say:
That is my body trying to outrun itself,
my legs try to flee
when it believes my mind is already asleep,
it is searching for a way out
but only finds discomfort
and never-ending sleepless nights
in its fight to be free

What I know about life,
which is much less than I’d like at 22,
is that hope is going to come to you
disguised as failure
in a bright crimson bow
laced with sleepless nights
that somehow lead to being alright
until one day there is a light
under your door
and time doesn’t scare you so much
anymore

I feel the words coming back
and I’m not sure if that is good or bad
I write and write
only when there is unending turmoil inside
strengthened by the fear
that I may be getting bad again
sad
lost
trying to maneuver my bones
in this lightless room
I was not equipped
to be in charge of my body
on another trip into the darkness

There have been many days without me
and there will someday be much more
but what has changed is the waning of
my own personal desire
to reach it faster,
instead
I am fascinated by the world
never the same at any given time
obsessed with how the light bends
around my fingers as I reach for the sky
finding new ways to fall in love with the fact
that I no longer want to die
and in turn, hoping to make the days with me
mean more than I could ever have imagined
instead of years ago when I was just hoping
for it all to end