The only part of me that matters is when I’m hurting.
When the thoughts in my head are too loud,
my shoulders too heavy,
and I thought it was easier to pour it down my skin than to confront the bathroom mirror.

My only fuel was the fact I was in pain.
I had a reason to write.
A reason to feel bad.
I had a purpose,
even if it meant choosing my own death date.

When joy came she was unfamiliar.
Like something I could touch but couldn’t quite grasp.
Similar to the way sunlight slips through a cracked window,
leaving only shards of warmth.

I felt undeserving of her.
As if somehow I was in a free trial,
and I would pay later for allowing myself to feel peace.
Because I didn’t deserve that.

So I adapted to it.
I expected the worst after receiving the best.
I never let myself enjoy moments that mattered.

I missed out on birthdays, weddings, my own anniversary.

I missed half of my life grieving myself while the world moved on.
Because time doesn’t wait for anyone.

Therefore I found a reason daily to be depressed.
Because it was my identity now.
I made it a home,
a toxic one sure,
but it was known.

I dug my own grave.
I wrote my own obituary.
I drowned in my melancholy while praying for saving knowing I would never take its hand.

Nowadays what I know is that everyone deserves the chance to be okay.
You don’t even have to be happy,
not perfect,
no one is perfect,
not even fine.
Just. Okay.

Back in elementary school, they used to ask if we had telepathy.
If we could magically read each other’s thoughts,
and talk without words.

Our answer was always yes.
In reality, we both knew we couldn’t.
But back then,
we were still young enough to pretend magic existed.

So I’d face him, cross my fingers,
and pray we were still close enough to understand each other—
just this once.
As we got older, our answers started to differ.
I think that’s when I noticed we were slipping.

Another question they asked:
Could we feel each other’s pain?
He always told them he could feel when I got sick,
when I got my period,
when I was hurting in my head.

Me?
I couldn’t feel a thing.
Sometimes I barely noticed when he was hurting.
But God…
if I could’ve taken his pain into my own body,
I’d have done it ten times over.
And again.
And again.
And again.
Until the only pain he ever felt
was the cramping from my periods.

They asked if we were close.
I thought we were.
I think he did too.
Truth is,
he’s been the only person I’ve known since birth
who’s still here.

I held onto him tightly.
Too tightly, maybe.
I told him what to do—not to control him,
but because I was scared he’d drift.
Scared that if he found better friends,
I’d be replaceable.
Disposable.
Maybe I still am.
But all I know is I’m still here.
Because of him.

Someday, we’ll drift.
I know we will.
He’ll have a life, and so will I.
Someday I’ll flip through old photographs
when I’m wrinkled and slow,
and my grandchildren will ask about the boy next to me,
the one holding me so tightly my face is smooshed.
And I’ll tell them,
“That was my best friend.”

I’ll close my eyes,
and wish I was still young enough to believe
forever might exist.

When I sleep, I’ll be fourteen again.
You’ll still be there.
And that’s all I ever wanted.

In your own house,
you’ll hear birdsong outside your window.
And you’ll remember me—
because I always told you I’d haunt you in every life.
Even as a bird.

But in every universe,
I’ll be your sister.
And in each one,
I’ll hold you closer during the times I didn’t know how to.
I’ll tell you I love you,
so you never doubt I was there for you.

I hope someone loves growing old with you
as much as I loved growing up with you.

“Winter Nights”

I put on my headphones and walk out
into the winter snow.

It is 12:00 at night and the streets are dark,
the snow is falling,
the lights are throbbing.
Perfect place for a walk.

Walking in a way is relaxing,
it finds a way of enveloping the moment.
Quieting the loud noises.

Those quiet nights that almost feel isolating.
There’s no one out,
no one except me.

The silence is almost deafening,
it allows me to hear the thoughts I had hidden.
So my mind crowds,
full on unspoken words,
and heavy sentences.

Each time I walk my feet feel heavier,
the weight of my own life
holding me back.

But I don’t stop.
I keep walking even if
it gets hard.
Each breath coming out more ragged
and I’m just counting down the minutes
until I make it home.

I stop,
when I feel I can’t no more.
I get down on one knee and
catch my breath.
The coldness of the wet snow
sneaks into my warm jacket.

I don’t know why
or how,
but I get back up.
Back on the same two feet that once
brought me down.
And I walk,
until I’m sore,
until I can’t no more.

I rise because I swore I would never let myself fall into the kind of silence that swallows me whole anymore.

Until I finally see light.
I run faster,
and faster.
Then I reach it.

The light is you,
it’s always been you.
Because during the darkest times,
you never moved.
It was me.

Whatever you find comfort in,
bask yourself in it.

…

I met a girl at church,
her mom got diagnosed with
terminal cancer.

Yet she stood tall,
she prayed
and trusted she would be okay.

I respect her.
She was put against the wall and the knife,
but she took a step forward without fear.

Whatever you find comfort in—
whether it is religion,
music,
family or friends.
Don’t let it go.

Because through the toughest times,
they will guide you.

And there will be plenty of those.
When you feel as if there’s no exit,
no meaning,
no purpose.

But you will seek comfort in what you know best,
and I trust
you will make it out.
Despite what you already
made yourself believe,
you’ll make it out.