Tag: sadness

The Seance

we drove
with the windows down
even though it wasn’t quite warm 
because it wasn’t cold, either.

and the boy with the curly hair
played Meat Loaf with the volume
at 37: 
And I would do anything for love
I’d run right into hell and back… 

i see your phantom whoosh
past on the side of the road
and wonder if i ever truly
felt your love, or
if it was just a ghost, 
too. 

we lock eyes. 
i laugh a laugh i thought 
i’d lost after i met you 

and watch you dissolve 
in the rearview mirror. 

mother, don’t you know? 
the boy with the golden 
irises doesn’t smile anymore. 
he’s packed, and there’s something 
heavy in the bags he carries
underneath those eyes.
there’s no such thing as darkness
in the city of angels.
there’s no fear in death when 
you welcome it. 
perhaps the sun will thaw
him, perhaps the cold has
nothing to do with why he’s 
so numb.

you can’t run away from what’s within // a.s.m

Foggy  Heart + Pins & Needles Brain

some mornings the sun shines
a bit differently
through my blinds, and
the fog’s already settled in
my stomach, signaling that
today will hurt– that i will cry
over the if only’s that make me feel
so
heavy.
these days are hard, but
they are not the worst.

the worst days are when the sun
shines brightly through the blinds, but
my insides have not yet thawed.
abruptly– a blow to the chest
and i am caught
off guard, gasping for
breath, reaching for
anything or anyone that can
save me from this feeling of
drowning. only to

realize i am not
drowning– if only
it were that easy. but
nobody can give me their hands
and pull me to
safety.

all i can do is listen to
the tick tock of my heartbeat–
not knowing when it will end;
constantly in fear of when it will return.

V for Victory

we taped our photos up on
the cinder block walls
and called it home, but
the word was slippery on
my tongue because
anywhere is a prison cell if it’s not
where you want to be. 

i scratched his name into
my wooden dresser
followed by R.I.P.
and that 38″ by 75″ mattress was
my lifeboat through the desert,
leading me to mirages I’d awaken from
with teary eyes and a mouth full
of sand. 

even the toilet paper
had my blood on it.
i would write love on my arms
in marker
to hide my scars,
but kept the ones in my 
eyes exposed
just in case someone could hear
the way i pleaded 
through the receiver: please take me
home, home, home. 

Tired

Of being tired
Of feeling like I’m not

              good enough

alive                happy

         loved. 

Of loneliness
emptiness

            unexplainable sadness.

Of living in fear of the parts of
myself I can’t control. 
Of feeling, 
of living;
of it all.