the earth is an ornament. a terrarium within a glass sphere, a balance, a system. a beauty. filled with light and hope and green and truth and blue and love and grey and orange and red. filling with haze and acidity from our mouths and from our eyes, spilling out into the rivers, our brains and guts splattered on pavement like that salamander who could not move fast enough. we dig out roots and networks beneath our feet and crush them to pump out fog and smoke. our bones are those long buried by time and grief. will that be me one day? will i grow up as something to dribble out of fuel tanks to allow for movement not nearly as fast, not nearly as efficient as i once was? you made me into something less of myself, you tore my tongue from my throat and punctured my eyes and gagged my mouth. you cut my wrists with a butcher knife and froze me solid, you ground me to char and let my blood my blood my blood be your ichor. you who never fought for me in life will fight to tear me limb from limb, pour my soul into 3mL, no, 2L, no, 1.65L, yes, yes, that will be enough. enough for what? to power another mile, another crush, another burn? is that my only future? they say those in glass houses should not throw stones but shattering is all i know to do, if i do not break myself i will stay whole and you will break me all the same.

Another hazy, feathery feeling
Engulfs my aching mind
I try to steady my breathing
The world begins to unwind


                                                          "gasp for air,
                                                                  close your eyes"

A dreaded culmination
My gaze flickering about
A building, uneasy sensation
Focus—breathe in and out


                                                         "grab hold,
                                     there's nothing"


The erratically beating heart
Prickles the tips of my fingers
Trembling hands, thoughts part
From me and all that lingers


              "keep trying,
                                       reach out"


To sabotage what grounds me
My nails dig into tender skin
To anchor against the violent sea
Although still imploding within


                                          "end the storm,
                                   into temporary solace"

In the dead of night
eyes are naught but blinking.
Fatigue stands idle, unmoving
yet the mind drifts, tethered to the ceiling.

Shadows writhe and slither
murmuring tales of unrest.
Ticking gears—a steady rhythm
mocking the silence in me.

Dreams flickering in and out
my goal under a cruel tease.
The mind under a riptide sea
churning and rolling in its depths.

Amidst this quiet chaos
finally, fragility settles.
Unbound solace pouring
beneath the moon's timeless gaze.

You’re probably busy.
Every few minutes, like clockwork, I check my phone.
I need to.

Nope.
You haven’t messaged back yet. It’s already been an hour.
Insane.

You or me?
Probably just me. I had to put my phone on silent so I can gain control of it.
Maybe I’m busy too.

Schrodinger's text.
By the simple fact of me not knowing you've messaged, you're actually waiting on me to respond.
I won’t keep you waiting.

Open. Deflate. Evaluate.
Yeah, that one I sent was fine. But what if this one was too intense?
Too scary.

An hour and ten minutes.
I get it. I don’t really like me either right now. Look at how I must sound over text.
Clingy? Definitely.

It reads:
“Hope you had a good day. What did you get up to?”
Sorry.

It's a bit much.
It prys. Like I need to know what’s going on every moment of your life.
****.

Maybe I can correct.
I didn’t really mean to pry. I only want to talk to you. It’s totally okay if you don’t answer. I’m sorry for being so intrusive, just let me know if you think it was too much, or if that’s too much, it’s okay if you take a little bit to answer. You really don’t need to. I need you to. Because it eats me up inside that you’re not going to like me anymore after I asked such an awful question. I just need to know what you’re thinking. PLEASE! ****! WHAT DID I DO WRONG?
...Gotta delete that.

Rewrite it a couple times.
Delete it all again because I like to think I have some sliver of self-awareness. Somehow.
I wish I knew how I messed up.

Turn off silent mode.
If you don't message, I'll be fine. I could never talk to you again and I would be alright.
Forced apathy. Attempted strength.

And then, it is you.
You’re not mad at me, and your message was very thoughtful. Maybe you were happy to see my message.
This time.

That’s good.
I write a giddy little response. Excited for you to message back soon.
And you do.

But then you don’t.
Every few minutes, like clockwork, I check my phone again.
I need to.

i wonder why i disappear
texts unread
missed calls
half-written messages
cancelled plans
faded into the crowd

i sleep in too late
i don’t sleep at all
because it’s easier to explain those things
than the heaviness in my chest

but the thing is,
they don’t go unnoticed

I'm fine"
The response,
a sconce.

People echo this to escape the outcry.
The cry they hold on to tightly behind that damaged brick wall
they use to stall.

Only the holder knows the deceive,
while people around them believe.

I'm not fine; I’m hanging by a thread, so thin,
With the weight of the world pressing down from within.
This fragile line frays, I can feel it unwind,
While tangled webs clutter the depths of my mind.

Empty yet twisted, so fragile, so tight,
In a space that feels hollow, with barely a light.

"Will I ever break free? Will I make it alive?"
These questions keep echoing, trapped in my mind.
Instead of a rise, I'm caught in a dive,
Descending a staircase, steep and unkind.
"Am I fine?"