When she told me- I didn't know how to respond.
Ask questions. Learn more. Be proactive.
I felt my lips move, speaking, asking, pretending I knew
what I was really saying.
It was as if I didn't want to her to get off the phone.
I was scared.
It was odd that she didn't sound comforting.
Is she delivering a prediction of a death sentence?
What is the proper response to that?
I kept asking her what it all meant.
So vague and indiscernible.
She told me to take care of myself.
I guess I'm not doing that already?
Who do I talk to after this?
I don't want pity or concern.
I just want feeling
like my stomach acid is proceeding
to consume every other internal *****
I could ever muster keeping
to go away.
I know I shouldn't worry.
There are people out there without limbs.
Worrying wallflower.
Worrying won't wish wondering away.
Let me deflect.
I can write about it and pretend
that I never did want to live past ten.

No juice or syrup here.
Nor do I sit atop rocks.
Ignore the chasers.
But take a shot
I'll leave an ever present
taste.

She said, "Tell me something nice about it."
And I stood there, searching
searching
searching
there had to be something.
Why couldn't I think of it?
"It's...really nice."

So many pages on the floor,
which are mine and which are yours?
You once said,
I am a book with large font.
Sometimes I wonder
if I am just a book that speaks out loud.
That does the reading for you.
An audiobook?
You're a heavier book,
filled with calculated text
and silence-
but never any blank pages.
I hold you up to the light
to read while laying
and fall asleep
until I feel the weight escape my hands
and slam down
HARD
on my face.
Keeps me awake.
Keeps me in pain.
The only way I can read you right,
is from above.
But these torn pages read of only love.

I always find myself running back to this,
desperately holding onto the little piece of me
that can survive alone
that can create.
I wonder if you ever mean this torture.
As if seeing me fret is fine-
put me on silent and out of sight.
For me, every time my screen lights up
my sheets buzz,
I frantically look for you.
but it's just a message from someone else,
a 7 AM alarm that wasn't necessary,
a low battery alert.
I know you are busy, and that I'm being annoying
like you say I am. (It hurts me a lot when you say that.)
But last night we didn't lay together-
and last night I didn't sleep.
You told me you couldn't either-
but for me it was really true.
You can see the timestamps.
And I just want an answer.
I hate feeling so needy.
I hate this reduction.
I've grown so obsessive.
I know I can't force love-
but I've been trying from the start.
Last night I wanted to save us
from any more damage.
So my legs started out the door.
I couldn't stop messaging you-
you told me not to forget you
but how can I forget the voices in my head?
I keep hearing you everywhere
but reality.
And I keep staring at my phone-
it just lit up with your name.
And so did my brain.
Yet now that I finally got an answer-
it really wasn't what I wanted.
A calculated mine field of two short sentences.
So I put you away-
but never silent and never out of sight
and I'm sure you never fret
or frantically look for me
but that's okay-
because I can still create something
a text
that will always respond
and never let me feel ignored
and always be mine.

I worry that if I had disappeared that night,
I would never get to hear the cotton sounds
of your voice
in my ear
whispering
"stay."