I used to be a mover.
I ran, and danced, and climbed trees.
If I saw somethng I wanted, I reached for it, worked for it, or asked an adult to get it for me.  
I would fidget and squirm at the dinner table and in Mass.
I did not question, I just did.



I used to say things.
I sang, rhymed and questioned with impunity.
I behaved as though everyone was hanging on my every word.  
People were constantly telling me to be quiet.  I made them listen.
My voice connected me to the world, it proved I was real.



I used to laugh more.
Giggled, chortled and chuckled with glee.
It was my first reaction to anything new and novel.  
It bubbled out of me, tickling my throat as it filled the room.
I measured the worth of a day by how much I had laughed.



I used to get lost in things.
In the fields, in untying knots, in books, especially in books.
I deliberately took wrong turnings just to see what was there,
and hid under my bed with a book and a torch and spoke to no one.
I felt so disheartened when I found my way again.



I used to create.
I crafted, sketched and wrote for hours at a time.
It just poured from my fingertips.  It was only completed when the smile came.  
A bright, beaming smile, bursting out of me.  I would burn with furious pride over 8 lines of mispelled rhymes about a purple monster.
I believed the only things you own, are the things you make.



Now I am uncertain.
Tentative, unsure, and above all; Silent.
Now I only move with a destination in mind.  
I am economical and perfunctory with my movements.                                                       ­             
I don't know how to use words anymore, the language has changed.  
The pen feels uncomfortable in my hand, while I agonise over the exact right words.

Being lost frightens me, and seems like a waste of time.

Creating things (non-edible things) are just extra pieces of baggage you must carry around.  Pointless and deflating, they chew their way into every part of your brain to fester and breed.
And people know when you've got poems gnawing your thoughts, and they will instantly distrust you.


But now.
Right now, as I near the end of this train of thought.
The Mover awakens within me.  I smile and crave company.
I have a sudden yearning to once again take a wrong turn.

I will not sleep tonight.

I’ve found myself feeling sad at night.
This is not something I say to make myself sound poetic or wounded.
Because no one should ever try to be those things.
They just are.
But as I was saying.
I’ve been feeling sad at night.
And I’ve tried my hardest to find the root of this emotion
Because every morning I wake up with the sun on my shoulder
And I swear I couldn’t thank God enough for the chance to breathe again.
For the chance to see and feel another day.
But I’ve felt this emptiness lately that the night seems to share.
This feeling of unfullfilment.
I’ve thought a lot about the cause of it.
The reason for this.
But there is none.
If anything I have every right to feel fulfilled.
I’m breathing, I have family who are very much alive.
I have friends I speak with every day
And still.
There is something
Missing.
I don’t know what it is.
I haven’t the slightest idea.
And this alone is the most unsettling part.
No root.
No cause
Nothing.
A perfectly healthy 18 year old girl
Who finds herself unhappy at night.
Sounds strange to say outloud.
But there it is.
And I know some would call it selfish.
Stop ******* about your feelings when people are suffering
People are bleeding
People are starving
People are cold
And I’ve found that it’s very easy to say these things about people I don’t know.
But I don’t know the struggles of others , and they don’t know my struggles either
So I can only pray that people don’t say these things about me.
Selfish isn’t it?
Nothing worth talking about.
But still I am.
I’ll just wait for the morning.

Head spinning
Vision tilting
Mind reeling
Stomache heaving

I don't recall my feet leaving the ground
or hopping onto a twisting rollercoaster.
Yet,
how else would the world be rotating
360 degrees,
back-and-forth,
upside-down,
all in the same moment?

I try so hard not to notice
When I go without that one thing.
The one thing that makes me break.
Cry.
Scream.
The one thing that makes me weak.
I look away, ducking my head.
Trying to hide from it.
But it calls me in.
Just like every other time,
I resist.
Turning my back.
Trying to walk away.
But in the end,
Temptation takes over.
And I know,
That I truly am addicted.

In the hour of death, after this life’s whim,
When the heart beats low, and the eyes grow dim,
And pain has exhausted every limb—
  The lover of the Lord shall trust in Him.

When the will has forgotten the lifelong aim,
And the mind can only disgrace its fame,
And a man is uncertain of his own name—
  The power of the Lord shall fill this frame.

When the last sigh is heaved, and the last tear shed,
And the coffin is waiting beside the bed,
And the widow and child forsake the dead—
  The angel of the Lord shall lift this head.

For even the purest delight may pall,
And power must fail, and the pride must fall,
And the love of the dearest friends grow small—
  But the glory of the Lord is all in all.

Just
LIKE me
And I
will love you

A boy told me he loved me the other day.
I looked at him, confused,
and told him not to love me.
Not to waste something so valuable on something so insignificant.
So he simply put his arms around my broken bones and told me instead,
“I adore you.
I adore all your quirks,
I adore all your dreams,
I adore all your scars,
I adore all your faults,
I adore you.”

It is a lighter burden to be adored than loved.