may is here and i swear yesterday was only january 7th.
cold air hits my lungs and i finally feel alive again.
i wish this momentary calm could find the courage to last for the entirety of my life. but the war in my brain scares it away.
i was a precocious child. it’s a curse.
i remember it well
your hand was on my hip
as you stood
behind me
talking to your friends
and they all stared at me
because we weren’t even
together
but your hand was splayed on my hip
and your head was on my shoulder
and you told me
“you feel like home”
i didn’t think the depth of my pain was visible from the outside until my mother told me she hated my sad eyes. that my eyes were always so joyful and now they appear as small voids to something darker.
i wish you were laconic. you aren’t. you just don’t care.
i believe i was a brilliant poet lifetimes ago. but now the words fall from my lips all wrong.