I think I know what it feels like to be dying. The feeling in my stomach telling me to ***** yet nothing is in my stomach to come up.
A grip on my chest, my lungs, tightening with every thought and every word that isn't the secrets I'm keeping from those I love.
I can't breathe anymore. I can't breathe.

Stars tapped to the ceiling above my bed just aren't enough anymore.
Planets hanging from string just make my heart ache for the real thing.

I wish you were here. But I also wish I was here too.

I keep saying "I'm doing alright". It's better than fine, I guess, but alright seems to be the best way to convey that I feel like I'm slipping away and the only thing that can bring me back is something I can't yet comprehend.

Losing myself. If my skin and bones were as see through as they feel, what would they say?
My chest feels like an empty hole that used to be good and just. I'm not lying to her, I'm just not stating the truth. Why can't I tell them the truth?

Anger, irritation, and general unhappiness.
I remember being alright and not knowing what to do with that.
The day I started wanting to be alone escapes me.
The day I stopped messaging people and not wanting to see them.
Stopping caring where I was going and what I would be when I got there.
A black wound in my chest where I used to care. Blown away by my own apathy and distancing.
Get away from me. Get away from me. Get. Away. From. Me.
Guilt let's me keep a handful of people near me.
The ones who make me feel like I can stitch up and cover up the hole in me.
Sad songs speak to me but angry ones do too.
I don't know why I'm angry.

Getting older I’m realizing what I miss
I’m old enough to remember people I don’t see anymore, remember who I was and miss a part of her, and to listen to a song and have the artist used to mean something to me.
Ghosts of the past brush at my heart, not quiet causing wound, but causing pressure and pain.
Visions of what was dance in my head, and I’m old enough that they’re no longer fuzzy or filtered with the unknowing eyes of a toddler.
When I come close to being back in reality I realize what I’ve done to become what I am.
Guilt sets in.
People I didn’t say sorry to. Moments I didn’t cherish and people I wasted time on.
Reciting history is not what I want because my memories mean nothing to you.
But we all know the feeling that haunts us as we’re going to sleep and when we’re trying to tell someone new a story of someone old. The feeling that happens when we’re trying to write a letter to someone that deserves handwriting, pen on paper.
We all know what it’s like to be old enough to know what has happened.

Being who I am
when I no longer care, I can do nothing to even act like I do.
No longer caring is not something that describes my feelings of you.
Eye level no longer being met. Hello's and goodbye's don't have the same twinkle and specialty.
Facing you doesn't scare me.
Facing me should scare you, though.
For someone who is known as the nice girl, I can destroy people.
Anger is not my forte and violence is not something I wrestle with.
Hatred is not in my emotional spectrum.
Giving the time and energy to dislike someone is time and energy that don't deserve from me.
Sadly, though, the choice to not care is not something I do consciously all the time.

All the doors to my world were open, signs on the walls to tell you where to go, and refreshments to the left.
You gave me the wrong direction to your house, made me search for the key when I finally found the way and still the keys didn't work for everything like you said they would.
Don't get me wrong, closed doors don't offend me. The fact you told me none of them would be locked is what hurt.
The floor was uneven, causing me to stumble and the feeling I wasn't wanted or allowed was as present as the confusion of what was what and what was where.

I changed my locks and added new doors. I returned the keys and forgot the address.
There's a picture in a frame on the wall of the hallway with your face next to mine, smiling at the camera.

The memory remaining, but the choice made.