i wrote this lying on my back,
sweating honesty, crying honestly,
trying to feel alive,
i read it back after the feeling had passed,
in heady disbelief, crying for relief,
always forgetting how bad the bad gets
once the good comes back:

don’t rush — everyone dies —
but don’t hesitate,
please,
you have so little time.

you have so little time.

screaming with my jaw snapped shut,
itching to peel my skin back
and let my bones air out.

nothing feels clean,
even when a room is empty.

i’ve been sitting in the dark for a while now,
staring at the too bright glow of a computer screen,
watching a small bug crawl across the only light source it can find
and wondering
what it must be like to be close enough
to touch the only thing in a room i’m attracted to;
what it would be like to be in a room with a light like you.

all my messages are notifications cleared
without being read,
my whole heart is offered though already
being borrowed and begged by friends
i haven't even had the audacity to call back.

i am tired of receiving without anything to give but a heart,
wholly but more than whole
and still not enough.

know, please, days like today i think i am not suited—
maybe for anything,
much less love, to love, to be loved.

what's more,
the exhaustion of
giving my whole heart has never proved to be enough;
feeling i might always be destined to give too much for nothing
while receiving too much with nothing to give but a heart.

there is no space in your life that i can fit into anymore
and that’s okay
but i still hope you think of me some times;
i hope you still hold onto the happier memories,
the softer things, fondly;
i hope it’s still not too much to ask
that you remember that even though i don’t now, i did —
i did have a place.

It's been getting warmer again lately
even though the daylight hours are shrinking and the nights dip cooler like a thinly veiled warning
from the planet that its end is getting closer.

I keep longing for last January when the new year ate my pain with cold mornings ; quieter days when deliberate silence turned into forgetting how to start a conversation in the first place.
At least I was doing things for me back then.

The last six months it seems like I haven't done anything.
I can't remember why I do anything anyway.
There's no motivation to keep on and purpose is not a thing that exists within me.
I am just tired of being, of getting warmer.

The world is ending,
literally shaking itself apart because nobody listens to warning signs until it's too late to do anything.
I'm not trying to say that my importance is the same because the apocalypse will **** everything and any loss I leave behind is so small looking at it that way —
but I am still shaking myself apart and nobody has been listening to the warning signs.

I have not been quiet about them.
There is no thin veil for a hurricane ;
no way not to see a whole city aflame.

The storms are getting stronger.
Houses were not built for homes.
The nights are cold and the days are getting warmer.

sunlight steams through a sliver where my curtains don’t quite cover the window; illuminates the top corner of a dresser that may or may not be haunted.

i miss you in inconceivable fashion, wearing the sweater you last held me in. the nights are long but the stars aren’t any brighter.