Like I Once Did

I drove until I reached the shore,

to find out I don’t love you like I once did.

A wave of relief took over me

as the ocean enveloped me.

I am home again.


Anxiety

I have become

Nothing

Attempting to become

Less nervous.

But now I don’t think

I don’t speak;

I am nothing.

I worry

For my future

But that just keeps the fire burning.

Is there an end?

Or am I the end?

Getting Over It

It took nearly ten years of being miserable

and much too hard on myself,

but it’s been twelve months now and it’s safe to say

I’ve beat the devil inside me.

It happened when I decided it was time.

I was done living a life of despair,

claiming the world was out to get me.

I took a year.

I learned who I am and what my limits are,

I set boundaries when I had my low tides,

I didn’t beat myself up when I got sad,

I treated myself the way I’d treat an injured dog or child.

I was gentle, careful not to hurt further,

and now I’ve got all these coping skills.

I’ve got all these ways I can survive 

without falling into a pit of depression yet again.

I’ve got a lot to show for it

but most of all,

I’m just glad I’m myself for what feels like the first time.

The First Few Days Of Fall

The wind blowing through my hair,

life feels effortless, if only for a moment.

I soak in the last warm days of the year,

I know soon they’ll be gone,

and gone with it will be your smile,

I lose two beautiful things in the winter.

So I hold on to this effortless moment,

try to ingrain it in my memory

for those dark days when the sun won’t come.

I can remember the way you smile at me,

and I’m convinced the sun shines for you.

Summer of running away

Echoes of gas stations,

shitty coffee,

sunken eyes and unkempt hair

swarm my mind

as I drive down a desolate road

in the dead of winter.

My coffee, hot as all hell,

stains my shirt and burns my throat.

I was homesick

for an imaginary place.

I had been searching for my home

but nothing stuck,

nothing but loneliness, empty roads

and the taste of burnt coffee grounds-

maybe that’s my home now.

At least they can’t break my heart.

Seen.

I have this need to be seen,

something I haven’t much felt before.

It’s strong, a yearning for standing in busy malls

and sitting in the middle of the coffee shop.

I’ve never felt this kind of yearning;

I fear if I’m not seen I‘ll be forgotten

and what am I but what others perceive?

And so I go to the coffee shop,

I order myself a medium iced mocha

and I melt into the people around me.

I listen but I don’t stare. 

I am what you make of me. 

I am nothing

I am just another body and face

I am not a soul

I do not have my own free will

I do not have my own thoughts

I am what you make of me

I am the idea of me you created

I am nothing

I am nothing. 

I thought I’d never feel whole again

I found solace under a tree,

planted new life where you used to be.

There was nothing elegant about it,

it was beautiful in the way you find yourself

at your lowest point, alone with thoughts and grief.

But I can feel again,

and that has to mean something.

There’s new life in my veins.

I can feel it when it rains,

but I can’t say it’s the same.

That early morning dew smell

7:21 am.

Window slightly cracked,

a cool breeze passes

and I awake.

The smell of dew

and birds chirping

make me feel something

I haven’t felt in a while.

I never wake up this early,

but my window outlooks the east

and I can see the sun rising-

it’s beautiful,

almost enough to keep me awake.

I haven’t written in a month,

it’s been a tough summer,

but there’s something about 

cool summer mornings.

I don’t feel so broken.

cowritten by my middle school self

Despair cloaked in irony,

layers of deep seeded anguish

behind a joke, a one-liner

designed to fool anyone who listens.

I smile while I lie to their faces.

With the laughter,

the one form of acceptance I know,

it’s like you want me to lie more.

What am I if not a joke and a grin?

When the jokes stop, so do your invitations,

when I can’t bring myself to keep up the facade,

you’ll leave just like they all have.

It’s not pretty, it’s an art

the way it’s all so goddamn predictable.

They ask questions that fuel their own self doubt

because they need to do better than me,

but all I ask is

what does that achieve?