I always thought I was stronger than this, and it’s hard to come to terms with the fact that I’m just,

not.

When I get this way, I drive real slow.

Every turn is an ache.

I can’t remember the last time I blinked,

my body gets so still.

I can feel my fingertips tingle, every breath, every hair on my head, every little cell, becomes

quiet.

I go from despair, to anger, to

blank.

It’s hard to get out from under nothingness.
-----------
See, the problem is, I understand why you keep trying to **** yourself. And I understand that I have nothing to offer you. I understand that you are miserable, and don’t care about anyone or anything anymore.

But I don’t know how to come to terms with you just simply not

existing.

I don’t know how to justify asking you to stay, and I don’t know how to justify leaving you alone to that pitch black darkness inside of your skull.

I am sitting on the sidelines, and standing in the middle of your game all at the same time.

And I’m not doing a good job at either.
-----------
And on top of it all, I choked today.

That’s really what made me the most upset– giving in to my own sadness and closing myself off.

I just needed a hug.

I’m so strong, that I’m weak.

Where the river abandons herself to the creek
and the mudbank is cratered with crabclaws
waits the old man.

He doesn't know his years
but his ears are a sonic gift
catching the tonal variations of tides
seemingly for eons
evolving with the mangrove map
into a flawless tracker
of how far the moon would recline
for ***** to be holed out
and what shoreline the water would touch
before the shrimps starlight driven
make a beeline for the net.

I encountered him once
in the absurdity of a time
when I was high
and he lowly crouching
was making art by the creek.

Who was the poet
I could never tell.

If only a glimmering pond to view
   a shimmer to ease my fear
of being cursed to look
   in an unreflecting mirror.

My sight is sufficient
   as I can see the first break of day
before the **** calls his warning
   or the horned owl beds away.

My touch is sensitive enough
  but I know not what I feel,
the pain of ancient splinters numbs
  when I touch the spinning wheel.

No, my sight is not the cause
  of my inability to hear
the sounds that I must make,
  it is the unreflecting mirror.

Perhaps outside they watch with me
  as I shyly shed a tear,
I cannot see our faces, though
  in the unreflecting mirror.

I didn't even ask
To be your sun
Or your moon.

All I wanted
was to be
Your Sunday afternoons.

How many empty calendars spaces
I wasted,
Waiting for you.

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