Whenever I write about you, beautiful words appear on paper.

Perhaps it's because every single thing that my pen pulses out
contains the image of your face, of your glowing confidence and gentle smile.

And I guess it's kind of sad,
How I insist I can't even remember your ******* smile                                          
       (and the way your **** eyes lit like newborn nebulas)
and how I don't care much about how you're doing
         (are you still with her? You probably are.)

But the worst part isn't how much I'm bullshitting everyone around me, how so not 'okay' I am, or how many times the words i'm fine, just tired made their way out of my mouth.

The worst part isn't that you're not here to hold me through this pangs of depression, hitting me like waves hit the seashore,

It's not the fact that I'm not your 3am drunk phone call or your ''good morning'' text, not even your arm of support (was I ever?)

It's not the thoughts eating me alive every night (don't worry, these  aren't your fault; they've been my dark companions for years), nor how I can't ever forget you, not even with pills or alcohol or cheap smokes.

The worst is the realisation that you're like a spring fragrance and I'm just another ****.
You're the summer breeze and I'm nothing but a grain of sand under your feet.

It's the knowledge that even through all of this, I knew;
I always knew that I'd never be worthy of you.
I never have.
I never will.

They keep telling me

I'm here for you

But do they realise
How difficult it is
to pick up the phone
when you feel so
                                   empty?

( I'm sorry I can't seek the help you provide. I'm sorry for being selfish.)

My life is a constant battle
between comfort and survival
between self-acceptance or insanity

And I'm tired having to choose
between nurturing my body
or the voices inside my head.

"I'm sorry for the
outward expression of
feelings
I can no longer contain,
but you mean more
to me
than language could
ever explain."

Her back arched with insecurities
hips full of eve's sin.
Carved into her ******* are all the planets she has slept with: three.
Flesh purple
Lips puckered.
She was taught about the things that rotate solely around her,
About her power
About holding her mothers feet in her lap and listening to stories about home.
A home she knows only from yellowing photographs and broken proverbs and tales of freedom.
She has spent too long dancing with the heavy absence of hands on her waist;
With the bitter taste of men sitting on her tongue.
With the eyes that follow her like moths to light.
Every word she speaks is fire from her teeth,
Lighting her face
Burning the men who get so close she can smell the eager sweat from their backs.
She was taught to howl when the men tell her she is beautiful,
She is better than poor adjectives
She is endearing, dazzling, fulgurous.
but
she is not her mother,
no matter how hard she tries to be.
She is her father; dark, and cold, and drunk, drunk, drunk.

When you are greeted,
With a shell of an
Old wrinkly man,
Do not forget the person i am,
Please try to understand,
That i am not the deep curves within my skin,
Please try to look within.
Do not forget though my speech may be
Inconsistent and slow,
And i may have difficulty with
The ability to chew and swallow.
Do not forget, that these complications,
Do not show,
The things i have achieved,
The family i conceived,
The fresh air that I've breathed,
In many different destinations,
And when you get cross with my hesitations,
Because my actions due to my complications,
May be a little all over the place,
Do not forget,
That embedded within my face,
Lies a whirlwind of memories and dreams,
And though at sometimes it seems,
That i am frail and bitter,
Please understand i am trying to come to terms
With the fact that Im no longer as fitter,
As i used to be.

And when you see me cry,
Do not try to deny me
Of my dignity,
Be calm, be patient,
And look after me gracefully,
Sympathise for the person,
I used to be.
And when you take my body,
Dress it with care,
There is still life there.

And if i stand and stare quietly,
Please wait, for me.
And when you brush my hair,
Please do not rush,
And if i speak in riddles,
Please do not hush,
What may not appear to make sense,
This change Im going through is
So very intense.

And if i soil myself
And your left to clean up the pieces,
Please try to do so,
In a way that irons out the creases,
Of shame and self blame,
And if i forget my name,
Please understand the pain,
That i will never be again,
The same,
Its just my body and my brain,
Don't quite work the way they used to,
And if it appears that Im asking you,
The same question repeatedly,
Please be patient,
I am doing the best for me.

When you look at my pictures,
My photos, my life,
You will see a successful man,
With three kids and a wife.
Young girl, I've battled inner strife,
For almost 90 years,
But nothing warrants tears more,
Than becoming a widow,
Not recognising your own shadow,
Realising your body is no longer your own,
Being moved into a care home,
Where the phone doesn't ring,
Where the birds no longer sing,
And you feel like giving in,
Every single day.
And people constantly say,
How you're turning old and frail,
That your body is aging and turning pale,
And every task you do,
You feel like you fail.

And if in time you begin to find,
A snippet of the old me,
Hold it carefully,
In the palms of your hands,
For the sands of time,
Are slipping too quickly,
Through mine.

So when you are greeted with a face,
With wrinkles so deep,
You could bury your own fears is them,
That sometimes weeps,
Remember, i was once
Like you,
And one day, you will be like me too.
Handle me with patience,
Tenderness, love and empathy,
Handle me gently.

And young lady,
I ask you,
Please be kind,
And remember all i have said,
As i unravel and unwind,
These cognitions within my head.

I've hid behind this mask for so long
that now I don't know who I am without it.

(Am I of worth without it?)