I don’t drink much. I can remember the last time I was drunk,
and that was months ago. One, maybe two. Then I’m done.
Being drunk only amplifies whatever mood my heart is in.
But one or two, and that softens it. The gray sadness
becomes a little more dull, a little more bearable.
Tonight I’m drinking water and it occurs to me;
I want a drink.
Sometimes it feel likes a stone arch, one that you would find in the ruins of some old place. There’s something so beautiful and yet so sad about it. You press your hand to it and try to breathe in the life that used to be there.
I’m sure that when others say they have an old soul they don’t mean one that was born into the world already in ruins. Or so easily able to be crumbled. Like it has already weathered from time that had yet to even touch it. Yet sometimes it feels like an ancient stone arch. Or maybe pieces of one.
I’m not a landmark that everyone wants to see, to wish they had been apart of or had seen in it’s glory. In the midst of everything, a few wandering glances might catch sight of me and see beauty from the wreckage, but mostly I’m an overlooked, rundown, nothing-great.
The stories found here aren’t so wondrous. They aren’t magical and they don’t take you to some far-off place.
The stories found here are as plain as stone and maybe just as cold. Don’t forget to wear your jacket and tread carefully. Don’t slip on any cracks.
I haven’t been myself lately, kind of like trying to copy who I am from a blurry image. Parts of me feel like smoke and now I’m just waiting for a strong enough breeze to sweep me away.
There are parts of my head that I want to shut off, and there are parts of my heart I want to keep quiet. I can’t tell where this screaming is coming from but these tears keep threatening to spill from my eyes. It’s like there’s a tripped wire somewhere in me that has let something shift, when it shouldn’t.
It doesn’t feel like a cold friend. And this doesn’t have a sick comforting familiarity.
Something aches inside of me, something feels missing. I can’t put my finger on it but I feel the gray under my skin. Warm water doesn’t wash it away and neither does his hands.
I don’t know where I got lost but somehow I have no idea where I am. I’m lost even to myself.
I want to wake up and pretend this is all a dream. But it’s not, and there’s no warm bed I’ve forgotten to wake up in.
We pull at our tightly strewn stitches
Trying to desperately break free
The strings got mixed up, though
I had yours and you mine,
Only tighter were we squeezed
Into our pretty packaged facades
Unable to breathe, unable to scream for help
The cloth of lies too tightly like a second skin
And those smiles took over, hiding anything
That could have possibly been underneath
I can hear the screaming in my head of all the things I’ve ever broken. The shattered remains may cut my feet walking through them but I have to walk through them. The guilt around me is the air I breathe and I try to act as though I have a breathing mask on.
But I don’t.
I hold on so tightly to all the things I have ever known and even when new perspectives come into the picture, the old one still remains and still sings softly in my ear as a reminder of what it was. Most of the time I quarantine it to the back of my mind where all of my busy thoughts are.
But they’re still there.
Now I have this new skin and I have this new heart and I can smile from the freedom of knowing it’s okay to be okay. Even though I have all these new things that make it easier to breathe, my past still clings to me as a shadow. And yes, I can shut my eyes as tight as I can, and pretend it’s finally gone.
But it’s not.
I’ve replaced the frayed string holding me together with pretty yellow ribbon, and though it holds much tighter, I still need it.
But at least the package is prettier.
When the emptiness hangs
low in my chest
my chest becomes constricted
so I find myself gasping for air
“Just breathe,” they like to say
as though you haven’t thought of it
but if I could just breathe
Maybe it wouldn’t
be so bad
I don’t know if I’ll remember this,
So here I am writing it down,
I picture myself sitting on a couch
That’s never as familiar as home,
But not quite so doctor-y either
Telling the man I’ve been talking to for months
And he’s asking what I’d be without it
And I say, “it’s not me,” to reassure him,
“It’s just a small part in the whole that is me”
But then I hear something reminding me that
There’s something underneath this new me I’m trying,
To be, and it tells me that it has always been there
And even though, yes, I could do without it, what if
I cease to exist?
What if without the sadness filling up my lungs
As though I’ve fallen in the ocean
With an anchor strapped to my feet,
What if it’s because I’m not really there?