I want to cry
But instead I write poems
And sob through them

Its a rough night tonight
My head feels like it's exploding
My asthma won't let me breathe
Along with my anxiety

My thumbs hurt like hell
I feel much less when well
Nausea cause by none other than my thoughts
Just wanting to go to sleep

I’m starting to hate writing poems.  
Not because he likes writing them,  
Or because I end up writing about him  
No.  

I hate writing poems  
Because when I write, I open up.  
And opening up means admitting  
That I’m vulnerable.  

It disgusts me to know  
That people can see me like this  
Weak, exposed, and fragile.  
So yes, I hate writing poems.  

But still, I write them.  
Because writing these poems  
Feels like the closest I’ll ever get  
To talking to him for real.  

And somehow,  
In those imagined conversations,  
I don’t feel weak. I don’t feel vulnerable.  
I just feel understood.

Each slice to my skin vomits words I could never say,  
A relief I feel in each cut I make.  
I’m in this body, a body that isn’t mine,  
But the pain I feel will forever be mine.  

I don’t want anyone knowing the things I make this body feel,  
I don’t want anyone knowing I’m actually not okay.  
Because they’ll know those smiles and laughs were fake  
But for how long have they been fake?  

I swear, I’m not okay.  
And every time I get better,  
It feels like I was not bad enough.  
So I relapse.  

Tears stream down my face every night.  
For a while, I stopped.  
But now, nothing could stop me from hurting.  

And if someone or something did,  
When they leave,  
I’ll fall even harder.  
That’s why this time,  
I hope I won’t get better.

If you asked me what I like about you,  
I’d say something simple, like, “your humor.“

Because saying,  
“I love how deep and emotional your eyes are,  
how they pull me in,  
make me want to uncover the depths of your thoughts,  
the words you’re too afraid to speak,”  
would be too much, wouldn’t it?  

Or admitting,  
“I love your lips,  
how every word they form  
makes me imagine their touch,  
the way they’d feel  
tracing paths across my skin,”  
wouldn’t that be even stranger?  

So instead,  
I settle for “your humor,”  
because it’s safer  
than confessing the truth.

I cried today,  
in front of my mom.  
The tears fell, soft and heavy,  
after weeks of silence,  
after months of holding on.  

I’m still crying now,  
each drop a whisper  
of something I can’t name.  

Maybe tomorrow,  
I’ll cry into my friend’s arms,  
or maybe I won’t.  
Maybe I’ll laugh it off  
while the ache lingers inside.  

Why the tears?  
I wish I knew.  
Maybe it’s everything I’ve buried,  
or maybe it’s nothing at all.  
But they’re here,  
and they keep falling.