i don't cry because I'm sad.
i cry because I'm alive.
because that's such a beautiful thing,
and I can't believe that I have messed it up so badly.

my eyes are closed and my breathing is slow and from looking at me you would never know how broken i feel,
but i feel broken nonetheless.
i have been living as this storm for a long time now, and my hurricane walls are broken, but they're still up.
the winds tear me apart inside and push tears into my eyes, but i don't let them spill.  wind doesn't always bring rain.
sometimes it just howls, lonely and loud and cold, searching in the darkness for something unknown.
like me, searching for love, or peace, or companionship, or whatever it is that makes people happy.
what makes people happy?
i don't remember the last time i knew, because even when i'm smiling i'm a walking disaster.
i don't care about the people i care about and i don't like the things i love anymore.
i'm not a prodigy.  i'm not a hero.  i'm not a friend.  sometimes i think i'm barely even a person.
i'm just a storm, and if you keep your windows closed and you wish really hard, i'll blow over soon enough.

as soon as one thing goes wrong i kind of collapse
becoming a total mess who complains and cries and does little else
i am less of a girl and more of a puddle,
one that cannot find motivation or reasons to wake up,
but does it anyway, half assed and tired and upset.
i don't care about school and people don't care about me and i don't know what i'm supposed to do because i can't stop crying
but that isn't an excuse to stay home and my parents yell when they see my tears and i still have to take finals next week

here's a shout out to the kids who can feel stress twisting their intestines.
to the ones who used to be smart and are now approaching the average line,
and who don't know how to deal with this.
to anyone who's cried in a school bathroom once,
twice,
three times a day,
and has never told anyone.
if you've ever stared at someone for so long they blurred around the edges but still looked perfect to you,
and they never looked back,
if you've ever stayed up until four am so you could go through the next day too tired to feel.
to the kids who hear sirens down the street and dream of the day they'll be coming for them,
but will be too late.
to anyone who has ever sat through a class full of people who want nothing to do with them,
anyone who has held their head up when they felt like falling to the floor,
anyone who has dreamed of epic adventure from the bedroom they are afraid to leave.
if you've lied to a therapist and your parents and everyone who has tried to make you feel better,
if you complain all the time but still keep things bottled up.
here's a shout out to us,
to the introverts and the depressed and the lonely,
to anyone who has survived one day and another and another,
and to everyone who keeps going,
no matter how badly we want to quit.

on mornings like these i beg you
think back to my last birthday,
and how many candles were on my cake.
how you wrote on my card that I am a young lady now,
only not past midnight.

i feel it in the wind that rattles my window when i can't sleep,
it is always calling out to someone who won't respond.

in the snow that falls and falls and falls and falls,
a fresh start for everything but me.

i feel it in the cars that look like little bugs from my airplane window,
all of them filled with people who are moving and changing and growing.

i am moving too, much faster than them and much higher up,
but i feel like i am at a standstill, stuck in hole and letting time move without me.

on new years, at midnight, taking shots of cider and throwing confetti and wanting to cry,
when my friends aren't enough, when i all i want is to feel his lips on mine but i never can.

i feel it in my folder of school work that i haven't opened yet,
in the thought of going back to take tests and to walk down halls by myself.

i feel it in the three and a half more years before i am free.

in thinking about the future and how many more days they expect me to live through.
in the words i keep repeating in my poems and in the words i don't know how to write.

i feel it in endings and beginnings and in my stupid hope that this year has to be better than the last one.
in the pages of my yearbooks and the texts on my phone and in the mirror every morning.

i feel it in the bottom of my coffee cup and on the underside of my pillow,
in the blanket that holds me when i am afraid nobody ever will. (and they wonder why i love staying in bed.)

(mpr)