All This Love Would Make Sense If It Wasn't For Me

day 15

3:50 a. m.

but really, we do get through everything, don't we? no matter how painful, we suffer through to the other side. i'm not sure what that says about us. i don't know what i feel about it. but it happens. this unimaginable will to stay alive. to forget the suffering. i don't know what to do about it.

it gets difficult to breath again. everyone is so far away. and i'm afraid. afraid that even if i do find the words to ask for help somehow, they won't hear me. afraid that even if i do start screaming, they won't know it's me. everyone is so far away and a part of me tells me it's for the best but gods, do i wish someone would hold me while my heart breaks.

it's been a while since you left

well, two months, five days, seven hours and thirty-five minutes to be exact

it takes one minute for your heart to stop beating in the absence of oxygen

another six for all you cells to degenerate

after that, even your brain gives up on you

and you die

i don't know what my brain is waiting for

'you suffocate me', your note said

'i'm suffocating here', i wanted to tell you

but you never stayed long enough

now i don't know how to tell you this

but for the past six months, you've been my only reason to smile

and this might seem like poetry to you

but i'm not feeling beautiful

if you look into that gratitude jar

you'll find it full of your name

so i'm sorry if my love suffocated you

but please come back

i need to breath now

day 11

8:51 p. m.

i feel like i'm losing track of days. like i'm in a perpetual haze. like my body exists out of my self. like i am but a spectator in my own days. i wake up and i make my coffee. i drink it and i read. i work out and do chores. i write too. but my mind is... somewhere else. i run my fingers through my hair, unaware of both hand and hair. i place the leaf in chapter twenty-nine, not knowing what's in there. nothing feels real. no, not nothing. this pain feels real. too real. this heart that beats too fast feels real. this mind, though lost, still exists. i think therefore, i am. i must be. or i must not.

it's always when the anxiety is gone that i realise how bad it really had been. how crying everyday is not normal. how it's not supposed to hurt when you breath. yet somehow, when it returns (and it always does) , i forget again. i pretend life is supposed to hurt this much. that looking at beautiful things is supposed to make you wish you were dead. but it doesn't hurt now. so i'm writing this... as a reminder, for the next time. remember, it got better this time. it got better every single time and you were glad for that. it will get better this time too. it will get better and there'll be rains and clouds and poems and songs and stories and people to look at and be with. it will get better and you will remember how much you love to write when it's not to simply get rid of the pain. you will go to bed giddy with laughter and take care of your body even if it's a long way still to love it. you will sing along to your favorite songs and dance you will say i love you to all those you love and hear them say it back. you will see that it's not just darkness waiting for you in the future. that there's a dream you have. one which you love working for. there'll be words and smiles and memories and so much more. this feeling I'm feeling right now, i'm giving it to you through these words. this happiness i feel, i hope you remember this.

i know it feels like your pain is out there in the world for all to see but it's not. it's so deep inside your heart even you can't feel it. and even if it wasn't... even if it was out there for all to see... what would be so terrible about that?

something something going through the streets of the town my mother grew up in. she grew up here. she was a child here. i am no longer a child. time passes so quickly. stuck in the traffic here, time doesn't seem to be passing at all. i hope the journey takes forever. i hope we never reach. it won't be the same as last time. this town was never mine so why does it still feel like home. one day, I'll come here for the last time. how will i gather everything in my little suitcase? all that sweetness, it turns sour when you take it back.

what do i do with all this untouched grief. it grows stale in my mouth.

what do i do with all this unpromised love. no one told me how to hold it without bruising.

“It is so much safer not to feel, not to let the world touch me.”

— Sylvia Plath