I've been trying to fill the void in my
heart
that tore me apart
when you left.

Convinced myself that
countless nights
of empty gas tanks
and coffee cups
would make me forget you

Now here I sit with a
dead engine
of a heart
And a buzz in my head that isn't just from
the caffeine confidence
but the words you said to me
before you left.

Your smile could paint my entire existence
white

Because you are everything in the spectrum, reflecting
what it means to be human.

I'm black
darkening your days,
clouding up your canvas

Empty void
of the negative.

I've spent my teenage years disliking myself.
There's this space in my chest where my heart should be, but all I feel is the ghosts of my past / present / future clawing away  at my fragile bones
Begging for an escape.

When people ask me if I'm okay, I've adopted the occupation of ballerina
rehearsing and teaching the muscles
of my face to stay
poised and pretty
my lips bent upward at 45 degrees.

If the self help books say to love your body like a temple,
then why does mine feel like it's in ruins?
I am a deity of disgust,
a demigod of self loathing,
the omniscient voice of my own oppression.

If other people can be happy for me,
then why the hell can't I just be happy
for myself?

I've spent the past four nights thinking about two things: how I should be missing you and how empty my chest feels when I realize I can't.
Most days I succumb to the loneliness.  My heart pounds so loudly in my hollow chest that I hope it's loud enough for you to hear, a tiphany drum of regret banging in your head. Time is spent wishing the bones inside of me would decompose into the earth.  At least if I turned into a flower you would think I was beautiful.
There are some days where I stand tall enough to catch a glimpse of the world in your eyes, a jubilant glimmer of hope, and for a moment I can see myself, a mere ember to your spark. But you've gotten used to sinking down to my level so often that when you peer into my eyes, there is an absence,  a lack of light.
I can't miss you.
I'm sorry.
I try, but I can't. I swear I didn't lie when I
said I loved you, I meant every ******* word. Lately the world has gotten the best of me, stripping me of my vocabulary and now all I say sounds like white noise.
I hurt myself to feel what it's like to feel.
There's an ache in my chest where you should be, but you're too busy filling yourself with my memory.
I wish I could just forget you.

I've been avoiding home lately because
home is where my noise turns into
static
into nails on a chalkboard
into the grinding metal of a head-on car collision.
When I ask my mother how she is doing, her mouth is flat
as flat
as the empty space of her bed.
She is the one who can make the world
believe that "I'm fine" and suffering and lonely
are synonyms for one another, a language
I know all too well.
Living with a parent who has chronic depression means that you become the parent, too. It means making sure she leaves her bed for the day,
that she doesn't drink too much every night,
that she doesn't spend too much time alone.
It means I will become accustomed to just how loud the silence can be.
I want to yell at her with every single cell of my body, letting the reverberation
chip away at the loose paint on the walls.
I want to cry in front of her, but we both know just how hard that can be.
This silence between us is a constant
ringing in my ears that I cannot
shut out Mom,
it's deafening Mom,
can you hear me? Mom,
can't you understand that this noise is the only sound echoing these walls? Mom,
when you ask me
how I'm doing, I reply,  
"Fine."

I'm staring up at the ceiling
again
Thinking of ways I could
fix myself

Permanent removal
from a temporary life.

Coincidentally, I saw your eyes
before I last blinked mine

Let's be honest, I was willing
to go
If it meant
you'd look at me the same.