Our Unloving

Dear Love

The 19th of August

On the Romanticization of My Mental Disorder

Today I threw on my favorite sweater, 
spent hours staring at the hummingbird feeder, 
enraptured by the idea of flying so fast and so far. 
Oh what I would give just to fly, 
to have freedom from this prison I create in my own mind. 

I'm not sure what I'm feeling lately, 
My emotions hidden behind the veil of depression and dissociation, 
But I know there is a lot of tears written somewhere in an unforseeable future, 
Maybe when I finally find some sleep they will come to me, 
My rested body willing to let itself be torn apart so she may go back to feeling like dying. 

I'm looking for new ways to make my insides clean, 
because I can't keep trying to drink this bottle of bleach, 
I have to remain here, be a stronger figure because my bestfriend just moved cross country a few days ago, 
and even while she pretends that nothing hurts there's a sadness inside that she just can't cure, 
I don't know if I could stand making that ache near tangible, 
so sure that my death would cause her to find her own ledge, 
just maybe take that leap. 

Today I wrapped up in stitched cotton,
A piece of fabric I'm semi-certain I have a fondness for. 
Learned to hear my own heartbeat in the silence before a predator lands, 
watched a hawk pick its prey apart, 
Saw the hawk as poetry, my heart that squirrel.
This piece my subtle way of killing myself. 


The Hawk As Poetry

Skin pressed against skin, flighty kisses like pressed petals falling overhead. Our skeletons are trying to communicate where our mouths have failed yet again, your hip bone digging into my flesh, your phalanges dancing against a fluttering, too prominent ribcage as you remind me again that I am too thin without saying it too loudly. Just a whisper as your metacarpals find my sagging spine, begin to count staircase vertebrae. You kiss the top of my head over and over as if you're trying to trasform the action from question to an answer, but, my dear, you won't find any answers here.

Other people reading this will probably envision us, me a sad thin girl whose naked skin has a grey palor, you my white knight all masculine and glowing. But unfortunately this narrative involves neither nudity nor romantic stereotype. The touching skin was just our clasped hands curled into my chest, and every kiss was innocent, the way a mother kisses a child. If this is a friends-to-lovers romance novel the writer forget His characters, forgot He made me incapable of more than this kind of innocence, and so now you and I love each other both too much and not enough for two people of our closeness. There is a danger in this, two girls who can neither just up and walk away from one another, yet there isn't a way to escalate the situation to something more terrifying but easier to explain to friends and family.

Maybe its my fault, as I sit here and write you into another pseudo romantic tale, because this sells more, because its easier for the rest of the world to hear this and think we're so madly in love, that one day it will solve itself, like the way my parents grow a knowing smile when they ask me again and again what we mean to one another and I say that this is purely friendship. I can't blame them, for the insistence that this has to be more, because I haven't hugged them since I was young yet you and I can't seem to stop touching even when we try to force seperation, even when there is miles of land stretched between us. It is possible we have shared more hugs in the year and a half of our closeness than I had experienced in my life prior to your existence in it, and its partially your fault that I don't know how to go back now even though so often I find myself wanting to. If not for my own safety than to spare you the trouble of being placed in a box they will never let you out of. 

So here I sit, writing this meaningless poem, wondering if maybe we are better off forgetting to know one another so you can enjoy a proper romance without having to explain away our bond, but I'm afraid to suggest it because I don't know if I could be capable of love without this. Because for the first time in my near twenty years I actually have concern for the wellbeing of another human without having to fake it, because maybe I am better for knowing what it is like to feel more than the anger and sadness and isolation.

Another Pseudo-romantic Tale

Love cannot be stretched thin

The Girl You Fall In Love With

Impulsivity and Lonliness

Free Love: A Movement

I am a poet. There is no other label that graces these bones. I am not an interesting human being, I am just a shell full of melancholy. Hence the hobby of poetry. Writing is my only escape from the cage of my mind. 



orpheus-eyes