it feels like every week i can't focus too tired too stressed a thousand things running through my head the week ahead the week behind like every week i look back i look around i look up and wonder what they have that i don't what i'm missing what i'm doing wrong to feel so alone and lost and afloat i tell myself -- every week -- "this is just a bad week. it is okay to just have a bad week." but every week is a bad week every week there's something wrong and i pray every single day for trust and for contentment and for letting go of control so where is the fulfillment? where is the answer? why am i still here every week heart beating faster and faster my breath going in and out and in and out in quick quick quick quick time beat if every week is a bad week where are the good weeks? where are the good weeks? --2.14.21
she upholds me. she encourages me. when i fall, she picks me up. she's perfect. her hair is as black as midnight, her eyes are the color of a tree in autumn--not quite green, not quite brown--and her smile reaches up to the corners of her eyes and fills me with joy. she's taller than i am and when i hug her it's like i'm hugging the human embodiment of, well, a hug. she's beautiful just the way she is, with all the pain she holds inside and all the hurt she feels. she's so very talented and she makes me cry with the way she writes about the ones she loves. she bottles up the feelings inside, but when she lets them flow they create some of the most beautiful masterpieces i've ever read. when i'm crying, when i'm emotionally compromised, when it's been a terrible day or week, she'll listen to me. i look to her when i hurt, and she tells me to look heavenward. she's wonderful, amazing, beautiful. i remember one of the wors...
it’s hard to do what you know is best when really it feels like you’re cutting your heart out of your chest open heart surgery, my heart was open to him— a book, his personal library. he told me i was bound shut but he didn’t know that i tore my pages out and laid them on the floor before him, around him. and when i put a match to the piles of paper surrounding him, i watched him burn within the flames, that sad smile on his face like he always had when we’d say goodbye. i watched, steel eyed and stone faced while he cried. and when it became too much i turned my face so that he couldn’t see the tears evaporating in the heat of our blaze. i tried to turn back, hoping that he would still be there, like he always was— my pillar, my support, waiting for me with arms open, always waiting for me to come home, to him, he was home— but all i found was ashes. him and i, mixed together because you can’t tell the difference when you’re both hurting— all screams sound the same...
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