Not For The Faint of Heart
This solitude that consumes me and this depression that engulfs me makes the Moon feel like perfect company as my insomnia eats away at my rotting bones.
And my teeth chatter when I watch the sunrise every morning in consequence of me chomping down on them all night.
Sleep, what is sleep? Sleep has become so unfamiliar to me because as I lay in this bed, all I do is try so desperately to clear the chaos inside my head.
But no, I am not afraid of the dark because this sorrow is somehow comforting. When I look up and I see this dark blanket that is the night sky, I relate to how lonely all of those stars must feel.
I am walking on a sea of happiness that I just cannot baptize myself in. And every time I think I can taste it, every time I catch a glimpse of light or inhale the scent of joy, the voids in my soul remind me that it's not that easy to weed out these roots you've planted inside me.
The weight of my sorrow drags upon my ankles like barbels, and here I am drowning.
The sun always refuses to shine on me for longer than it takes these flowers to finally blossom and bloom. But when it does shine, I gaze up into the sky only to see so many atoms dancing in the sun to the beat of my anxiety ridden heart.
Though it seems like every time I find myself staring at the sun, I end up blinded and everything so quickly goes black all over again.
How can I shower when I can't even find the will to remove myself from this bed? How can I eat when no matter what I put into my body, I somehow still feel so damn hollow?
This pain strikes me to the depths of my core and it feels as though someone has taken a shovel and began digging into my chest.
Break into me. Crack open my bones and peel away through my tissue and flesh. Rip apart my organs and set fire to my soul.
These veins that run through my body like roots in the ground beneath the trees, I ponder how they still manage to flow blood into my questionably beating heart.
How is my heart still beating, how is my blood still pulsing through this shell that is my body when I don't even feel like I'm alive.
But before you ask, no. No, no, I am not afraid of dying. In fact, I think sometimes I crave death more than my dry, cracked throat wishes to be quenched.
What I AM afraid of, might you ask, is living.
I am afraid to breathe, I am terrified to wake up each morning.
Why? Because I don't think this pain will subside. I don't think these wounds will ever heal.
I can feel this writhing pain in every fiber of my being.
But I will peel these scars from off of my wrists eventually. I will put them into my mason jars and remember them forever.
Someday, the Sun will rise again. And I will write poetry about the tragedies existing in my life right now.
But first, I must survive them.
About the author
My dad always said he knew I was going to be a poet because I was crying before I had even completely left the womb. It’s always been my dream to get published someday.
She/her. Cosmetologist. Writer. Vegan. Dog mom.