My father used to tell me that I am too serious.

I've always wondered,

When he was there for it all,

what else am I supposed to be?

I think of dying a lot.
Almost every day it seems.
My mind is consumed by the thought that,
Possibly,
one day,
I will simply cease to exist.
My brain doesn't understand,
it cannot comprehend,
the brevity of these thoughts.
Not existing isn't an option, it goes against human instinct.

A part of me hopes there is life after death,
That with all the possible universes and timelines,
We can simply switch from this one to the next.

The anxious part of me,
the largest parts of me,
panic at the idea of having no air or sun or life.
Nothing, not even awareness of the absence of something.

As empty as I am, or have been,
I still fight.
I fight to stay alive and to experience all of the wonderful moments that exist in this life.
I want to travel to unknown Italian islands and see the way the sun sets in Thailand.

Why am I stuck in this bubble, this little corner of Earth, when there is so much more to explore?

I am afraid of dying, without ever having the opportunity to live.

Your presence is comforting,
but I can't help but feel guilty,
when my mind destroys a moment between us
to flashback to memories of him.

He's been gone for so long,
I don't even think of him.
Yet, the wrong stroke or too long without a breath,
and I am trembling, shaking, crying.

Stop. Stop. Stop.

And immediately you do.
You're nothing like the ones before,
so why do their ghosts remain?
My body is haunted by their ethereal touch.

Your light kisses remove the cobwebs from my soul;
your hands stroking my back as you murmur calming words removes their stolen claims to my body.

I look into your eyes when I finish crying, I tell you I'm sorry,
but there's no need.

You see me when nobody else can.

You stay when nobody else would.

You saved me from demons I did not know exist.

What else is there to say but thank you?

My heart aches
at the thought
of holding you
being nothing more
than holding you.

How am I supposed to feel,
when the woman who has been strong for me my entire life,
has tears flowing down her cheeks?
How am I supposed to feel,
when my friends who live easy going lives,
tell me they know what I'm going through?
How am I supposed to feel,
when my mind is in denial,
even though the proof is in her slur?
How am I supposed to feel,
when I cannot allow myself to cry,
because I have to act the role of parent?
Tell me, how am I supposed to feel,
when my father tells me not to tell,
as if keeping it a secret will keep me sane?
How am I supposed to keep myself together,
when the world continues to fall apart,
and repair itself,
over and over and over again.
How am I supposed to feel when the one i love the most cannot love themselves?
Let me tell you,
I
  am
       falling
                  apart.
And this time, I don't want to get back up.

I once told you
that you are the only one who has ever inspired poetry in me.
Which isn't quite true,
but true enough.
You are the only one who inspires poetry out of love
Not pain.
You didn't shatter me like the one before,
who inspired so much darkness it filled my pages for years.
Instead, your freckles were the stars the guided me into hope.
Your eyes became emeralds that illuminated my poems with color.
You became the one.
The one who makes my voice stronger, my heart lighter, my me me-er
I am silly and light and infinite in your arms.
Even when my poetry is wrought with word *****,
the words are lyrical to my eyes and ears,
and if the poetry I write isn't meant to be for me,
then who is it meant for?

I am fearless,
until I look into your eyes.
Then I find myself melting back into you,
soft, sad, and sleepy.