I want someone to hold my hands
Warm my soul like a flame
I miss your face, skin, warmth
Get me excited for life
Or just get me out of bed
I’m tired of blue light and bright screens
Foggy eyes and groggy thoughts
I want to see the Sun
And your smile
Let me reach out and touch you
Touch
Breathe
Maybe when August comes we’ll be better
We’ll make it there together

For you, my dear poetry,
I will not stir up my emotions
I will create them.

For you, my dear poetry,
I will not lie,
I will create a fiction so delicate and complex
that it becomes my truth.

For you, my dear poetry,
I will not close myself off,
I will tear my body open
and let the demons take control.

For you, my dear poetry,
I will not become a better person,
I will bathe in my emotions
and revel in my despair.

For you, my dear poetry,
I will do anything.

I want to flow from my own fingertips,
hang in the air, a final chord.
I want to break apart into a million pieces,
dance away in the nightime's wind.
I want to be held as I split and crack,
try to meld me together one last time.

I want to burst and implode and evaporate.
And I want you to know that I'm sorry.

Tenebrous days in which it feels as though you will never be happy again; nothing is wrong, but nothing is right. You spend all day switching between uncontrollable crying and complete and utter emotional numbness, feeling stuck in time, as though everything is moving in slow motion. For you are trapped underwater, and all of your energy is put into just keeping your head afloat above the murky water.

Black ink running though your veins, coughing for air, you fear the darkness inside you is contagious. Slowly sinking, ears ringing, muscles aching, bloodshot eyes, your head throbbing every time you blink.

You watch the light dance across the room as the days fade into dusk, closing your eyes, and letting the shadows cover you like a blanket. And you beg, you plead, you pray, that the next breath you take will be your last.