There are scars.
There are paths on my skin
That my tears follow, widening gaps,
Both corroding and smoothing.

There are moments when I want
To extinguish my flame for just
Five minutes, or ten.
And just exist without existing,
Without the trouble of being corporeal
Being real without having to be real.

Because I think crying is a crime.
I think my being is a *****.
I think life is sometimes a lie.
And that we’re all two dimensional,
Living what we think are full lives.

This is the question
I long to and am afraid to ask:
How does one carry on? And then
Carry on carrying on?

How do I forget the sting of salt
Sticking to the underside of eyelids
And the feeling of weakness after
The breakdown?

I can’t leave, and I’m terrified of
Going on. But there’s no way
Not to make a decision. Not deciding
Means going on in the meantime’s mean time.