12/14/23

—

I have this fantasy of yelling my words

Off of the top of a mountain.

The trees and rocks will hear me,

Echoing everything I feel as if reverberates around me.

A chrysalis of feelings coming to a climax in a desperate urge to get it out of my brain,

But ultimately, an excuse to say I said anything at all.

Part of saying things is wanting to be heard,

And that requires the dependence of someone hearing them

And I have not deemed anyone worthy enough to do so.

I will pick apart your flaws as meticulously and carelessly as I do my own,

I’ve always had a habit of itching at scabbed wounds.

My arms are littered with scars from my childhood,

Bruises that I couldn’t seem to let heal completely,

Their pain is a consistent comfort, and I would give anything for consistency.

In my body I am wild and free,

In my brain I am all of this and nothing at once.

I dance more often now,

Letting my limbs release themselves from their ridged position of protecting my organs.

I sing now too, and it is only occasionally touched with melancholy.

I hope that everything I allude to and every metaphor I use to express myself will one day be interpreted correctly by someone who cares enough to piece together the puzzle of a story I have created from my life.

I yearn to be heard but I have never known how to be fully alone.

If I tell myself I am comfortable in my loneliness,

I make sense of the life I have lived up to this point.

If I let myself admit that it tears at me, the lack of companionship slowly eating at me, then who am I up to this point?

I am misunderstood,

I am the look you give your friend when someone doesn’t make sense.

I am stolen glances across a room that will never amount to anything more than that.

I am heartbreak and sadness and fire and rage in a box that I cannot break out of.

I am endless joy and love,

I am the boarder of chaos when you will only want stagnant love.