may the ones i leave behind
never lie in their journals,
in their conversations, or to themselves
and call me “too good for this world,”
when the world and i have always been two of a kind.
let it be known that not all unsuitable things
are too perfect or too light to be ill-matched
for the place you were born into;
some of us are heavy,
some of us are undoubtedly flawed.
no, we were never ethereal,
we were mere mortals straining to be.
Tag: depression
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ethereal
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a bearable future
my past feels more like wreckage
and despite how they commend the survivor,
i feel more like remnants to scour.
my past feels like a crash site
and although it’s been years
since the most recent collision,
i’m still writhing in the street
waiting for paramedics to save me,
but perhaps they couldn’t
and i am the ghost
and the past is my grave,
or perhaps it’s the ghoul
feasting upon where i lay.
but surely death isn’t like dying,
again and again, day after day;
if i’m merely a corpse,
where is the peace i am promised
once i rest in a cemetery?
and if i’m still above ground
and the past is just that,
then, i hope i may rest
in a bearable future, in a pleasant home,
before my bed becomes a casket
and my headboard becomes a headstone.
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to the girl in love with Christmas lights
to the girl in love with Christmas lights
and the sweetened scent of pine,
the one too small for all that plagued her mind.
to the girl who lived a thousand lives
and ached so many nights,
the one with bones so new,
her heart aged twice the time.
to the girl who believed in forever and after,
smiling through tears to find laughter,
i’d love it if she stopped by,
but i’m afraid i’ve closed that chapter.anxiety, Christmas, depression, grief, holidays, life, longing, loss, melancholygalaxies, mental illness, poem, poems, poetry, quote, sad, sad poetry, seasons, writing
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on a whim
but you don’t kiss me on a whim
and you don’t say you love me
like you’ve never loved someone like this.
but maybe i want more than i deserve,
perhaps i seek more than i am worth.
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am i something
am i something that can be loved far away
or something loved a little less,
the farther the distance?
am i something that can be savored
without being embraced
or will lonely nights feel like
grasping for ghosts that look like
the last time you saw me?
am i something that can exist
in your thoughts
while you live in a place
that i hope makes you happy,
but not so happy that you
start to forget to wish i was there?
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sunken pangs
sadness slams against my organs
like ocean waves smashing against sea cliffs.
saltwater teardrops gush past my waterline,
landing on my lips;
it’s a killer whale encircling me
as i exhale deep breaths between them.
it sounds like sirens singing,
surrounding a sobbing vessel,
beckoning me to succumb
to death’s beautiful promise
of “no more sunken pangs,”
so convincing in its refrain.
“abandon ship” like sadness knows best,
but it’s a rusted anchor
chained around my neck,
and i’m an anguished castaway.anxiety, depression, grief, life, melancholygalaxies, mental illness, poem, poems, poetry, quote, sad, sad poetry, trauma, writing
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one more dead girl
unfurl my past devotions
like clues on a table,
scrutinize the corpse’s life,
ask about her type
and hear the larvae gossip
“light-eyed arsonists”
interrogate the dry-eyed suspects
and ask them why they spoke in bullets,
why they cannonballed into her chest,
and how they raised a warzone
from a blooming garden.
detective, if i had known it’d end like this,
with me facedown in a shabby bed
and my ghost wailing from the roof
for justice (or revenge),
while watching the world continue to spin
despite how violently i departed from it,
i’d like to think
i would’ve ignored the text messages,
i would’ve kept walking past
—the wraith of my heartbreak
haunting me each time
i dare considered a third
or fourth chance.
detective, can’t you understand?
they strike me like matches
against sandpaper
and wonder why the city burns
and my inner child seethes.
i was just a spark they toyed with,
but i love men who point
their guilty fingers,
and it’s always at me.
they could never be blamed
for the forest fire,
for the body in a coffin
or the ashes in an urn,
an overdose in a junkyard
or one more dead girl.abuse, anxiety, death, depression, grief, heartbreak, life, love, love poem, love poems, love poetry, melancholygalaxies, poem, poems, poetry, quote, relationships, sad, sad poetry, trauma, writing
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skipping
you infiltrate my thoughts like a song
i listened to excessively.
my mind’s a radio station and you’re a top-ten hit,
so your tragic chorus plays on repeat;
i’m a sucker for nostalgia, so i hum along to it.
life’s a vinyl record skip-skip-skipping like a kid
playing hopscotch in my haywire headspace.
because i can forgive like a saint,
but damn it i can’t forget,
and like a dachshund yearning
under the dinner table, i beg.
the future wants to welcome me in its embrace,
but i keep pausing for the past
like it’s worth the hesitation.
if i linger long enough, you could catch up
while i catch my breath
because it wears your face like a mask;
it gazes in glimmering green.
i glimpse its glint in crowded corners
and vacant city streets.
the song imbues the room like your laugh;
i can see your front row teeth
as you applaud me with a smile,
and i’m entranced, but the world scolds me,
“the past is in the past.”
my loved ones wag their fingers
when they see me glancing back,
but i would live there if i could,
but yeah, yeah. i know that i can’t.
