I visited your grave the other day, and it occurred to me that I couldn't tell you how I was doing. I assumed you're doing fine, or at least I'd like to think so. I couldn't bare to tell you that I've stopped believing in Heaven, I couldn't bare to tell you that I've become the soil surrounding your casket. I sat there in silence while my fingers went numb and I swear for a second I could feel my soul sinking into the ground trying to shake you awake, To tell you I need you. To tell you I haven't made progress. I'm killing everyone around me. I wanted you to wake up for just ten minutes. I wanted to tell you everything I haven't been able to write nor say out loud. I wanted to tell you that I'm okay and I wanted you to tuck my hair behind my ear and melt these frozen tears off my cheeks and look me straight in the eyes to tell me that I'm not. I wanted to sit there in your arms and scream, Because every time I try screaming, I fear that I'll awaken parts of me that are meant to stay unconscious. But I've been meaning to think about myself for a second and- I'VE BEEN SPENDING RESTLESS NIGHTS CLENCHING MY FISTS AROUND MY BEDSHEETS, AND DIGGING MY FINGERNAILS INTO MY HANDS BECAUSE I'VE FOUND AN ADDICTION THAT I CANNOT TAME, THE SIGHT OF BLOOD DOESN'T BOTHER ME THE WAY IT USED TO. I'VE STARTED DOING THINGS TO FORGET. I'VE STARTED LIGHTING PLANTS ON FIRE TO GET SOME SORT OF HIGH OUT OF LIVING. I'VE STARTED BECOMING THE TYPE OF PERSON YOU TOLD ME NEVER TO BE. MY PALMS ARE THE EYES OF HURRICANES AND DESTROY EVERYTHING THEY TOUCH, WHY IS EVERYONE ACTING LIKE THEY NEVER SAW THE TREMBLING IN THE FIRST PLACE? I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT SANITY IS AND I DON'T REMEMBER THE LAST TIME MY HEAD WAS SILENT. IT'S LONELY YOU KNOW, HAVING FIVE DIFFERENT PEOPLE TALK TO YOU AT ONCE IN BETWEEN YOUR EARS. I MET SOMEONE THAT LIVES A BORDERLINE AWAY BUT STILL MANAGES TO SIT ON MY PORCH AND WAIT FOR ME TO LET HIM IN. I CAN'T STOP LEAVING DINNER TABLES WITHOUT PUSHING MY CHAIR IN FIRST, I CAN'T STOP LEAVING PEOPLE WITHOUT SAYING GOODBYE. I FEEL TOO FULL. I FEEL TO FULL OF FLAMES BURNING DOWN EVERY LAST CITY IN MY BODY, I FEEL EMPTY. I FEEL LIKE IT'S SUNDAY MORNING AND I'VE POURED MY FATHER A BOWL OF CEREAL JUST TO FIND OUT WE'RE OUT OF MILK. PLEASE DON'T HURT ME, I'M SORRY, I DIDN'T MEAN TO, PLEASE DON'T HUR- I have a body made of one-hundred sheets of college ruled notebook paper that kids like me used to make scrapbooks out of. I am a collection of bruises holding up photos of a Father's fist, My hands were only made to hold those who feel empty when not holding a glass of wine. Some days I am full of constant negativity and feel the need to rip grass out from the earth and throw China cabinets to the floor to say that nothing stays pure forever. I stopped thinking about myself for a second. I sat at your grave and said nothing. I was going to tell you all of this but I couldn't bare to tell you I stopped believing in Heaven. The only time I ever saw you smile was on Sunday mornings.