I fell in love.

It was a foolish thing to do. Especially with the knowledge of my past experience but I have a tendency to repeat mistakes.

It wasn’t a person. No, it was a moment. The moment your eyes barely grazed mine. His voice filled the room, talking of loneliness and the places you find it and feel it most. In this moment I felt it, absolutely, down to my soul, I was never alone with you.

A warmth filled me. A comforting truth glowing like ember. I noticed it immediately, because I have been cold for so long. With icicles that reached out to fill my limbs. Making my hands shake, and my chest hurt. But this moment, I wait so long for moments like this, the ones that almost give me meaning.

I yearned to love you in return. To love myself. Because sometimes I see it in your eyes. Wishing at me, praying for me. Because you’ve seen the darkness, the coldness that can reach my eyes.

You call me wonder. I ask where. I still see the healed, almost invisible scars on my arms. I feel the ghosts of tears that have washed my face countless night. I remember the times that static from violent thoughts overwhelmed my mind and had me willing to do anything to make it stop.

But now, its months later. I’m no better or worse. Caught in, what seems to be, an electrocardiograph of ups and downs.

Still, I stay searching for another moment.



Time for honesty.
Maybe a little dose of reality too.
For myself. I know, I am prone to wallow in self-denial.
“You’re wallowing again.” (Thanks kid. I mean it. You’re always honest with me.)
That’s why I stopped writing.
Stopped expressing.
I thought I could ignore it. Ignore what I never brought up and out and onto the page. Pretending it didn’t exist, the little turmoils in my head.
I hate feeling like this, spewing metaphor after metaphor for sadness and pain. I say pain like something hurts but I’ve been past that. I’m talking about the pain where all my nerve emotional nerve endings have been fried. So now I can’t feel anything, even in the moments when I so desperately want to.
I am going to get through this though.
That’s a statement.
A fact.
I am going to push through and spew out all this garbage, because I’ve missed this. The sound of my fingers on the keyboard, writing down ideas the moment the pop into my head. I don’t even carry a journal around anymore. All because I don’t want to admit to it. To let it be real. To be real.
So real talk, with feeling.
My feeling, or feelings.
Those that I push so desperately in that box and place at the top of the closet.
I want.
Well, I want a lot of things. But concerning this, I want… Not to be more happy. Happiness is fleeting and lands in moments, briefly or lingering. Never permanent, no. We can of course feel its traces, like the touch of a lover that you still feel on your skin.
I want to be less.
Less sad, less wallowly.
Less empty.
Less of whatever it is, I’m feeling the majority of the time. I don’t need happiness to replace it. I need just more space so I can fill it up with something different. Something productive maybe. Something hopeful, inspiring.
Perhaps, what I am yearning for is…


It’s 3 weeks til the end of the semester. I just need to hold my shit together for 3 weeks. Then I can go through whatever mental episode I’ve been holding off for weeks.

It’s bad tonight. All that static and white noise in my brain, then the burning rage because I can’t get it to stop.

Every instinct in me is telling me to tear apart this room, break everything I can, and then proceed to punch a hole in the wall.

But it’s midnight.

And all I want is to get past the anger and the bitterness.

Why the fuck am I like this? Why do I keep failing?

Honestly, I hate writing like this. Because it feels like shit and I see no beauty in the words. It’s me admitting how messed up I am. I’m not ignoring the ugly parts. It’s all the jagged pieces poking through and I can see all the damage. And I hate it.  I hate looking at myself and saying I need to get it together, because I’ve been saying that for the last 6 years. I’m tired of dealing with the same depression. The same thoughts, the same questions, the same fears. Fuck. You think some progress would’ve been made.

You think writing it out would help. Getting it out would release some of it. But it doesn’t. I’m just as angry. I still can’t think. My brain hasn’t slowed down.

It’s midnight and I’m burning.




Sometimes all that’s left is sadness.

It’s night. I look over all that I haven’t accomplished and all my failures. It weighs on me. I am weary.  I should’ve been better, stronger.

Now there is nothing left.

I wish I was past this. There are days and weeks I feel like I’ve made improvement, that I’m moving forward. Then a week like this comes along. Without warning, those dark clouds are back, surrounding me and my thoughts. All hope, all positive thinking seem to be  swept away.

I am very tired, and I cannot sleep because tears burn my eyes.


I’ve just now, started noticing the sky again.

It was a beautiful day. It could’ve been raining or gloomy but I remember it being beautiful. I was warm, down to my core. A peaceful happiness was spreading through me. We had just finished laughing. After nearly a half hour of nonstop talking we settled into a peaceful silence, taking in each others presence.

As one does in shared silences, I stared off into some unknown distance. Perhaps some shade of green caught my eye. I looked back to you and found a solemn countenance watching me.

In moments like these, between intimates, I believe a mood can shift. Even a conversation can take place in silence.

We looked at each other, the way one truly sees another. Past the surface, beyond the facades, right up to the front door of the soul.

There you whispered, “I’ve missed you.”

I know. Me too.

Then you asked, “Where have you been?” Even though you already knew.

Someplace dark.