Why do I hesitate
to taste the lips of someone new?
Why does thrill feel like a warning
I’m already apologizing to?
Always mapping out an exit,
stitched with careful apologies,
aching to appear unbroken
while my fractures learn to bleed.
And blood-red became my favorite
not bold, just familiar.
Worn like a question
I never answer.
My seasons don’t transition
they collide.
Zero to a hundred
in a breath,
everything to nothing
without a sound.
One minute I’m on a mountain,
lungs wide open in victory
the next, the fall comes quietly,
and I can’t recall the climb.
I want sunlight again,
but patience feels unfinished,
like something I keep pouring
into a cup with no bottom.
My wardrobe is distraction
ballgowns with no stitching,
beauty without feeling,
color without memory.
The bright things are buried now
in rooms I don’t visit.
Even the streetlights I lit in daylight
have burned out without witness.
Fear feels too small a word
but still,
I want to try again.
So I walk with my shadow,
the only one who knows
how often I almost leave,
and still stays.
Apr 16
Apr 16, 2026 at 10:12 AM UTC
Why do I hesitate
to taste the lips of someone new?
Why does thrill feel like a warning
I’m already apologizing to?
Always mapping out an exit,
stitched with careful apologies,
aching to appear unbroken
while my fractures learn to bleed.
And blood-red became my favorite
not bold, just familiar.
Worn like a question
I never answer.
My seasons don’t transition
they collide.
Zero to a hundred
in a breath,
everything to nothing
without a sound.
One minute I’m on a mountain,
lungs wide open in victory
the next, the fall comes quietly,
and I can’t recall the climb.
I want sunlight again,
but patience feels unfinished,
like something I keep pouring
into a cup with no bottom.
My wardrobe is distraction
ballgowns with no stitching,
beauty without feeling,
color without memory.
The bright things are buried now
in rooms I don’t visit.
Even the streetlights I lit in daylight
have burned out without witness.
Fear feels too small a word
but still,
I want to try again.
So I walk with my shadow,
the only one who knows
how often I almost leave,
and still stays.
