The only feeling I've ever seemed to be consistent with is the feeling like I'm missing something.

Home used to be a feeling, not a permanent residence but every time I leave school I live somewhere new. Home never got to be "home," I never had enough time.  

I think I left because I felt like the second you'd become home I'd be uprooted.

So I did what I did best, I moved.

And sometimes I still fall asleep to the memory of me collapsing on my bedroom floor and apologizing for telling you I loved you too soon.

But ten months apart and home isn't home, home isn't your skin on a Friday morning. Home isn't skipping class to feel the warmth of your sheets for just a few more hours.

Home feels like trying to remember your voice when you won't even look at me.

The first time you hear your ex
is with someone new,
it will feel like a ton of bricks
resting on your lungs.
You'll find yourself deserting
the flowers they planted there,
reminding yourself of the things
that used to break you both apart.

You promised to love me
with everything in you,
but ******* does it scare
me to ask the question:
"can anyone really love me
despite my mental disorders?"
Because God, loving a paranoid,
anxious, Obsessive Compulsive,
depressed ******* tore you down.
And God, did it destroy me
to watch you fall apart with me.

I've been stuck on the idea
that all I need to hear from you
is that you don't miss me anymore.

I can feel my sanity fleeing,
harsh memories sliding
through my fingers like sand.

I find comfort in isolation,
because the fleeting feeling
of acceptance by my peers
becomes so minimal that
it keeps me up at night.

There are millions of stars
outside and I hope one day,
far from now,
when I can find a way to
put in words just how hard it is
that you can't love me back,
we can lay there
and count them together.

I dream of it.

But I also dream of
being someone else and
I have spent the past few years
trying to correct an
emotional abuse that just
won't seem to fix itself.
I won't get better until the
existence of my internal isolation
is so minimal that
I won't have to hide
under covers the second
my sadness kicks in.

I meet people that
are beautiful and
I try to be beautiful,
I try to sit straighter,
I try not to push people away
but I just can't be more than
a wilting flower.

I just can't fix it.

I think I'll go back to you until
you ******* want me,
but I haven't wanted to
**** myself in about
two weeks and I think
that says something about us.

Or maybe it doesn't.

Maybe this is as foolish
as the time I romanticized
street lights
because a boy told me
he'd be a street light
over a stop sign.

I think about your smile
when I see the sunset,
because nothing will compare
to the night you told me
about where you'd like
to be by next year.

I'm starting to feel like
a stranger every where I go.
I havn't been able to lose
the vacant signs between
my veins, my shoulder blades,
my bones.

People will insist on
making homes inside yourself,
but Goddamit it's
so hard to find light
in the darkest parts of yourself.

Maybe I don't have
to stop breathing to die.
I just have to love you again.

A boy asked me today if I was happy,
And I couldn't answer.

And when I told him "I don't know,"
He told me I did.

Today a boy asked me
What makes me happy,
and I couldn't answer.
In most cases, I'd tell him it was him.
But it was too simple,
too in-the-moment.

Do you ever meet someone
and wonder how they could love you,
and more importantly how someone
couldn't be crazy about them?

I want to learn the crooks and crannies
of your ******* skin,
and I want to learn the wheels
in your brain that turn
when you wait for me to answer -

What makes you happy?

And I wish I knew,
I wish I could tell you it is you.