the wolf actually exists.
it's hidden in plain sight.
a constant presence looming in the trees,
occasionally making itself visible.
if I accuse it of trying to ****** me,
the crowd will humor me for a few seconds.

a body covered in claw marks.
a body covered in open wounds.
a body that needs something
other than time in order to heal.
a body that begs for a tourniquet
made from twiny rope.

I cry wolf and the wolf cries liar.
the wolf cries wolf and I cry listen.
the crowd shakes their heads and walks away,
whispering to each other about how
I should just be thankful
that it hasn't killed me yet.

grief is still groveling at my feet.
grief won't stand up and face me.
grief won't go away.
grief is still groveling.

forgiveness is a heavy, hollow thing
burrowing into my chest,
gathering all my warmth.
I try to send it home to you,
but the farthest it's ever reached
is the back of my teeth.
it doesn't want to go.
I can't let it go.

I ask sorrow where it hurts
and it points at me.
I ask rage where it's been
and it points to you.

it feels like my brain has crumbled
and there's all of this empty space
to create something new,
but the only material I have to work with
is the ruins of the old brain.

I'm rearranging the pieces.
I revisited the I don't want to live part of my brain
and moved the don't in between I and want to give up.
I relocated trauma and built it next to strength.
the maladaptive thoughts revisit sometimes,
but they never manifest into action anymore.
I couldn't destroy the I deserve this piece,
so I centered it in love and kindness.

I thought the inside of my head was built to last.
once you put clay into a kiln,
it's impossible to reshape it without breaking it.
there was hesitance before the destruction.
there was a crack, a catastasis, but a calm collapse,
and in the rubble, I saw a way to heal.
I never knew a wrecking ball could be so gentle.

I will no longer be the bed you stay in when it rains.
we face the dark together,
but you embrace the light alone.
when the clouds take their leave, so do you.
when the weather breaks, so do I.

I will no longer let you use my body as therapy.
your listening ear has gone deaf;
your hand to hold keeps its fingers locked.
the shoulder on which you've cried
had a person attached to it the whole time.

there are days where I feel like you are by my side.
there are days where you run ahead
while I take your shadow's place.
and there are others where our paths never cross
—a set of skew lines that know of each other,
but do not know each other.

if I have to keep guessing where I stand with you,
then maybe I don't stand anywhere at all.

I used to stay awake until morning
because I knew the monsters under my bed
would disappear with the sunlight.
it always worked back then, but now,
there is a monster that has buried itself
under the skin of people I love.
I've been waiting for the sunlight.
I've been waiting for the promise
that this will come to an end.

when I think the sun is coming out,
the tyrant finds another person to attach strings to,
another person to throw on a stage,
forcing them to tell their audience
I don't have a problem.
sometimes there are stars littering the sky,
but there's never enough light to drop the curtain
on this perpetual nighttime.

I am stuck at a funeral procession where bodies
are being rotated in and out of the casket.
I don't know how to let go of this grief.
it is said that exposing someone to a fear
is the best way to help them overcome it,
but that never taught me to be less afraid.
it only taught me why I am.

I'd say I feel like a confessional.
I am nothing but a voice behind
a wall of woes and worries
layered on top of each other.
it is hard to differentiate my pain from theirs
because the paint is all the same color.

I'd say I feel like a product
that keeps getting put back on the shelf.
the signs advertise
blow up doll: therapist edition!
you can stick your emotions into me
without the stress of worrying about how I feel.
no reciprocation necessary.
you can project yourself onto me
until I look too much like everything you hate.
note: you may return the item,
but we cannot refund wasted time.

I'd say the only difference between
being replaced and being disposed of
is whether or not they want to remember me.

I have always been afraid to say I'm better.

what if they think I didn't suffer enough?
they don't know what it took to get here.
I remember the blanket confining me to a bed,
the meals that spoiled while waiting to be made,
the self destruction I dressed up with humor.
maybe that doesn't meet their qualifications,
but suffering is not a job I applied for
even though it still feels like work.

take the depression away and what's left?
remove the dark and you get light.
remove the thick skin and you become raw.
remove the walls and you get rubble.
I can rebuild from this.
I can build a home instead of a prison.
take the depression away and you become alive.

I don't know if there is such thing as 100 percent better.
I don't know what better is supposed to look like,
but this is what it looks like for me:
it looks like getting out of bed
and setting reminders to take medication
and not canceling on my therapist
and not wanting to **** myself
and not killing myself
and not killing myself
and not killing myself.

maybe that's only 80 percent better,
or maybe 70 percent, but that's still okay.
maybe not I do yoga and run 5 miles okay.
maybe not forced positivity okay.
just okay.
that's really all I need to be.
just okay.