a silver blanket tucks in
the overgrown earth,
the light leaks through in slivers,
and buds bloom
in kaleidoscope colors.
sweat trickles instead of rain,
the sunshine becomes
a shrinking smile,
as the wayward world
reprises the cycle.
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cycles
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what if
today, i am in fragments.
today, i weep and wonder
how on earth can i survive this?
today, i will think of tomorrow
and what if.
what if,
as i ingest the next breathtaking sunrise
and wait for the following sunset,
i think to myself,
i’m so glad i waited.
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the paradigm
my soul took beatings like a pro,
like a linebacker on a football team
people pay thousands to cheer for
from the front row.
C-PTSD instead of CTE,
and i can barely throw a ball,
but my dad still swears
he’s proud of me
even though most days
i forget how to exist,
despite how my too-few talents
don’t make us millions.
i’m as apologetic
as i am broken
for not becoming
the paradigm of prosperity,
for sometimes being hopeless,
for being only the toiling poet.anxiety, depression, grief, life, melancholygalaxies, mental illness, poem, poems, poetry, quote, sad, sad poetry, trauma, writing
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blood-red sea
the human brain is a mighty thing; it can remake the bottle-green land into the vast Pacific sea. i can be in the grocery store, gripping my cart with white knuckles on aisle four, yet feel like i’m drowning. isn’t that amazing?
it’s so convincing, like bull sharks pretending to be well-meaning heroes with their hands held out—their life-preserving words, so inviting, and their lighthouse eyes, so dazzling. i glimpse only the curving shore in their smiles and never the blood-stained teeth. my hopeful assumptions always almost kill me.
the human brain is a mystifying thing; it morphs my hemorrhaging heart
into a lavish four-course feast, like drifting debris encroaching on something’s territory. it makes every discourtesy my fault, converting their mistakes into my pleas, “please, forgive me for aching.”
time and again, my body’s drenched and frigid, my thoughts punctuated by puncture wounds from every facade that promised to patch me up and dry me off. sometimes i think, this is the end.
but the human brain is an awe-inspiring thing; it keeps me flailing and fighting toward the surface despite my infinite injuries, believing bravely—or foolishly—that i can survive this, as i’ve survived everything before it, even when the blue sea becomes blood-red.anxiety, depression, grief, life, melancholygalaxies, mental illness, poem, poems, poetry, quote, sad, sad poetry, trauma, writing
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lobotomy
you severed yourself from me
like the frontal lobe
from the rest of the brain
in a lobotomy
i would get if i could,
if it wasn’t an outdated practice,
if it could cure this heartbreak
festering into madness.
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the boiling point
i’ve crawled across hot sands
for as long as i can remember;
thank God, or whoever, i rejoiced
as i cupped you in my quaking hands
like cool water.
i tried tirelessly to be an oasis,
but i was just the pressure
escalating you to the boiling point.
i provoked bubbles instead of butterflies,
and now my throat is as dry as ever
as i reach for a man…
or a mirage? i can’t recall.
tell me, was it real?
was it love at all?
-
i am best when i am soft
What’s your favorite thing about yourself?
despite everything,
my hands remain soft,
my heart beats love
and not harm,
and my being welcomes
the frangible
with open arms.
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heroes can be human
when i was a child, Superman walked me to school.
he held my tiny hand like it was gold and his palm was a vault. he couldn’t soar, but he made time fly because we always had fun, although somewhere along the way my mind outran the clock’s hands.
life kept going, i kept growing and eventually i saw right through Superman—i didn’t see Clark Kent, i saw my dad.
i can hear his bones creak now, i spy his tired body slouch, and i notice his calloused hands.
nevertheless, his presence feels like a stronghold and he still makes me laugh; i respect him twice as much for his mortality and how he became a hero, despite that.
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a kiss without consent
a kiss without consent
is not a kiss you have to count
when a friend asks if you recall your first
and they ask how it felt.
a kiss that left an aftertaste
of shame and regret, like a scar,
is not a kiss at all
if it feels like you’re marred.
i beg a God who i often resent
that you learn how to kiss clean lips
without reproaching your own
for the time someone’s unwanted tongue
slipped through your mouth,
like a thief slinks through a home,
despite how many times you said no,
no, no, no.
abuse, anxiety, depression, melancholygalaxies, poem, poems, poetry, quote, sad, sad poetry, trauma, writing
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the pit
i am swallowing
paint palettes and crayons,
markers and glitter,
hoping to make a rainbow
in this pit i call a body.
