Every day just passes
then the next.
I can’t believe how lonely
this all gets.
New Adult Mystery and Adventure Novelist
Every day just passes
then the next.
I can’t believe how lonely
this all gets.
I had gone bitter, I realized, lying on my floor at 7 pm. Lights off, music playing, thoughts ruminating like a bad storm. I tend to relate my feelings to the weather, and the weather affects my mood. We have that kind of relationship. And today it was windy, cold, and dark. I felt it deep inside my chest.
I spent a long time forcing myself to fall in love with boys who weren’t worth it while hating myself. Under the impression that having someone else love me equated to me loving myself. If he could do it, I wouldn’t have to. Maybe if someone else loved me, I could understand what there was to love about myself. But that’s not how it works.
And I spent so much time in half-assed relationships with people who only wanted to hurt me, and I don’t blame them. I should. And I did for a while. But I realized they hated themselves just as much as I hated myself, and I understood why they stayed for so long.
And I sit here, laying on the floor in my darkened room, and I realize I’ve gone bitter. I’ve always kind of been bitter, but I got just bad enough sleep this week to acknowledge my bitterness. And the music, its own agenda about breakups, have me thinking back on my exes and all the damage they did.
And I don’t blame anyone for my bitterness. I don’t even blame myself. I know it’s just today. It’s just the weather and it’s just my lack of sleep. But there’s moments when I’m not so sure.
The winter snow told me to relax,
things will work out,
just give it time.
And if it’s not okay,
have a cup of tea
and a warm blanket.
Spring will be here
and you’ll be good again.
Winters are for hibernating,
growing and healing.
But then why,
I ask myself,
do I always break down
when winter comes around?
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?
I still think of you often,
but it’s not the same.
I miss you in the way I miss my childhood,
you’re a nostalgia trip,
but I’m better off now.
She drove until she reached the forest, camped there for the night, and drove on to the next. It had been a week-long journey with no defined end. Teary-eyed and broken-hearted, she made the spontaneous decision to travel by car until she couldn’t remember his name. Or at least until it didn’t hurt to think about his bright blue eyes and his contagious smile.
She inhaled sharply as she merged into the right lane on the vast and ever lonely stretch of highway. She had just passed the only car she’d seen in the last five hours and the weight of her reality had been pulling her deeper and deeper into a pit of sadness, like a ton of bricks on her barely beating heart.
When she decided on this trip, she didn’t realize how depressing it would be. Traveling alone is clearly lonely, but she realized this just too late. It should have been obvious beforehand. Any sane person would’ve known traveling alone is as lonely as it gets. But she wasn’t sane. She was a grand mess- hair askew, nail polish chipping, the same shirt she’d been wearing since he told her he found someone new. She couldn’t bring herself to buy new clothes.
Work called her yesterday when she didn’t show up for her shift. She had a long talk with her boss about love and life and to make sure to keep them up to date on when she’s coming back. She was fortunate enough to have a job she could leave and come back to as she pleased. She was also fortunate enough to have the money saved up to go on an indefinite endeavor across the country.
None of that mattered, though, because the whole time she was miserable. She wanted to go home, but couldn’t bring herself to head that way. A part of her wanted to live out here. She was in the forests of Washington, thousands of miles from home. All she had were the clothes on her back and her water bottle, but the thought of stopping at home to collect her things- where her now-ex-boyfriend also lives- made her nauseous. She thought a lot about just how hard it would be to transfer to the Seattle brand, get an apartment, new clothes, furniture.
She found herself surveying houses in the suburbs. This one’s too small, that one’s got no driveway, this one would be nice. Oh, and an open house. It won’t hurt to go in. I can say I’m thinking of moving out here from Massachusetts. It’s true and doesn’t invite too many questions I can’t answer. Oh, and it’s cheap, too. I could afford this if I transferred to the Seattle branch. I should call my boss….
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.
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.
Late at night, darkened room,
windows down, a single owl outside.
It has no nest, perches on a branch beside my window.
I don’t sleep when he’s out there,
but I never bring myself to shut the window.
Because who will listen if not me?
He’s got a lot to say, this homeless bird,
and he’s always alone,
Maybe I feel connected to it-
projecting my own loneliness
onto this brown nocturnal owl,
hoping maybe if I let this bird speak
someone will let me, too.
Sitting in a dimly lit room,
the light went out a week ago
and it’s rainy and foggy today.
The rain carries from outside
to deep within my soul,
creating puddles in my chest,
a type of flooding only possible
when it’s rained relentlessly for weeks.
Doctors and meteorologists
don’t know when the rain will stop,
but they assure us it will.
It’s a strange comfort when
you know the rain will end,
but you have no idea when.
It’ll come unexpected,
you won’t be sure at first.
“Is that the sun
peering through the clouds?”
And it is.
And it is beautiful.