dearest caroline,

you and i were dancing jubilantly,
waltzing to a tempo that was far
too fast for our feet.

but there was no music,
and all that could be heard
 was a deafening silence.

we did not realize that fact
until it was too late. and that,
my love, was our downfall.

sincerely,
will

is it always going to be like this?

am i always going to feel so distant? so lethargic?
when i was younger, i envisioned myself
as a smiling girl, a laughing girl, a happy girl;

not as a girl who feels
like she could spontaneously burst into tears
at any given moment.

not as a girl who feels
so tired she can't move herself from her bed,
and feels low low low.  

not as a girl who feels
so weak that she can't talk herself into any kind of productivity,
though lying still makes her feel restless.

not as girl who feels
endless frustration because she can't even think of
what to do with herself.

and so i ask: is it always going to be like this?

we do not fit;

the same way that if you rearranged
the map of the world and placed Norway and France
next to each other, it would not look right.

there would be empty spaces between them and
while at some places, the borders would align,
it would not be enough.

just like you and i.
we are not enough.
we are not right.

and no amount of
rearranging will make our
borders perfectly align.

i was 12
and sitting in the passenger's seat
next to my mother
when we collided
with someone else;

my world became a blur
of shattered glass and screams
and sirens and flashing lights
and ****** hands reaching for
****** faces.

"you should've died that day,"
they always tell me.
but i did.
why can't they see that i'm dead?

i was 14
when i jumped from our second
story apartment window, and my
body hit the ground with enough force
to make the earth shake;

my world became a blur
of shattered bones and screams
and sirens and my mother's tears
trailing down her face as she wept by
my hospital bed;

"you should've died yesterday,"
the doctor told me,
and i wanted to ask him why
he couldn't tell that i was already dead.

i am 17,
and wondering why i am still here
if i am dead

i am 17,
and asking my mother when
my funeral will be, and if she
could please have tiger lilies
at the service.  

"visiting hours are over,"
the nurse tells her, and
she smiles at me with teary eyes,
and i smile back, because she says
we'll have a funeral when i get home
from the hospital.

i am 17,
and i am dead,
and wondering how everyone can
see me if i'm only a ghost

i am 17,
and all i want is to be in the ground,
six feet deep

i am 17,
and realizing that my mother lied
to me, we're never going to have a funeral,
and i am angry

i am 17,
and i am not sick, stop telling me i'm sick,
i'm dead

i'm dead