My body rejects the writing
because writing
is like an I.V. in my veins.
It clears the venom
out of my body
and dries up
the river of words
in my mind.
I do not want to be
a skeleton
with pretty bones
and no substantial thoughts.
Writing polishes my soul
but I lose the piece of me
that made me fight.
I have so much to say
but I am slowly
chipping away and
all I can do
is watch my brain decay.
Every time I write
my fingers crack under the pressure
that maybe after this poem
everything will be ok.

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