Sometimes,
When I lay on my back on my bed,
My legs hanging over the edge,
Starring up at my colourful fairy lights,
As music softly plays from my record player,
I feel like someone else.
Someone who is living the stereotypical teenage life.
Someone who has a crush on someone who secretly likes her back,
and she has a perfect life.
In these moments,
I lose myself in my thoughts
while I stare up at my ceiling.
In these moments,
I feel unprecedented joy.
In these moments,
I bask in the soft purple glow of my fairy lights 
as I think of her.
She has no identity.
No face, no name, no voice.
She is not real,
She is a figment of my imagination.
She is simply a place holder until I can find her in real life. 
Until I can find someone to replace her.
But for now,
I think of her.
I imagine taking her out on small sappy dates.

I am afraid,
Afraid to admit my feelings for you.
Afraid to admit it to you.
To myself,
To my family,
To the world.
Because that would mean,
my most vulnerable secret,
would be out in the world for people to see.
To judge,
To use me as an example for their children,
To say horrible things to me.
About me.
About my people.
My people who are still fighting to be seen as equals.
And while the ones in my life who matter most know,
The prospect of having everyone know is horrifying.
I live in fear of what people will say.
And I hate it.
I don't want to live in fear anymore.
But I can't help but be afraid.
When my people are still being killed
Simply.
For.
Loving.

People walk with their families,
The sun shines brightly,
The crisp wind blows,
The birds sing from the trees, 
The peepers in the marsh behind my house chirp,
The water from our well drains through the pipe in our yard.
The cherry tree in my neighbor's yard has bloomed,
and the crisp wind shakes it's pink petals to the ground. 
Time feels frozen,
though I know it's not
because as the cars drive by I am pulled from my thoughts.
But if I close my eyes,
Everything seems normal,
it doesn't feel like the world is ending anymore. 
If feels like if I were to open my eyes,
I would be greeted by beautiful laughing faces.
But as I open my eyes,
I'm greeted only by a clumsy bumblebee dancing from dandelion to dandelion.
The sun has been engulfed by clouds now, 
and everything has a different feel. 
I'm transported back to reality.
A reality that I'm not so sure I like.

Tears,
Cascade down my cheeks.
Shedding for the
Desire to be loved.
But feeling undeserving,
because I was loved.
I was loved
and I walked away from it.
I feel like I don't have the right
to cry
to be loved.
Because you loved me.
But I didn't feel the same at the end. 
I miss it,
Not you,
I don't miss you at all.
However, I miss being loved.
The affection.
I miss being greeted with a hug. 
I miss the small kisses placed all over my face.
I miss the cuddling.
I miss the kisses that took my breath away,
that made me feel wanted.
I miss the compliments.
I miss being told that I'm beautiful while my lover's eyes dance down my body.
I miss the surprise hugs from behind while I'm working.
I miss the moments that make me hot under the collar.
I miss being loved,
And all of the glorious things that come with it.

My heart beats faster when I see you. 
My knees shake and I forget how to breathe.
How to talk.
Broken English.
Adrenaline pumping.
Finger guns.
Rosy cheeks.
Gasping for breath.
I don't know if I"m scared of you,
or
If I idolize you.
You're intimidating.
But so am I,
or at least that's what I've been told.
I'm fascinated by you.
Watching how you conduct things so smoothly.
You're so organized and punctual.
I hope to be that way someday.
I'm organized now,
or at least I think I am.
I have a planner.
I keep my meetings and events up to date.
I'm early for most things.
But I don't manage my time well.
I do everything the night before.
You'd think I would've learned by now.
I perform well under stress,
I guess that's why I do it.
You're level headed 
and have such patience.

This pen,
is the only thing that can truly understand,
in detail,
What I am feeling. 
For this pen is like a therapist,
it comforts me on my bad days,
and cheers me on in my times of victory.
It knows my lover and my friends,
My old crushes,
My painful childhood. 
It knows me fully.
It's the only thing that knows what terrorizes me,
and what makes me feel like I'm flying.
Sure my lover knows all these things,
But this pen,
This pen knows more.
For it has written miles upon miles of odes to my lovers and to my trauma.
This pen,
is one of the only things that knows me,
Inside and out.
For this pen,
is like my therapist. 

What if we've been getting it
Wrong this whole time.
What if all the science we think 
We know,
Has given us a false hypothesis of how we function.
What if our brains don't make the
Truly Important decisions,
But rather the heart.
What if the heart makes the decisions that can change lives while the brain takes the back seat.
What if we have gotten the pumping and pulsing mess of muscle all wrong.
What if there is a part of the heart 
That has the ability to make the hardest choices in life.
Suppose the brain only makes the decisions that don't matter 
All that much. 
 

To all the people out there who have never suffered from a mental illness.
You are so fucking lucky.
You are so lucky that you don't have to experience the feeling of waking up,
After weeks of freedom,
to feel like you can't pull yourself out of bed.
To be prisoner to yourself once again.
To feel like everything is 
Void of meaning.
To be numb,
Even when you are in love.
To feel physical pain,
Because yes,
A simple chemical imbalance
Can cause body pain.
To have things you love,
Become lack-luster. 
To feel as though the brightest of colors,
Are dull.
To be drained of energy,
Even after sleeping or 14 hours.
To be in a haze.
To think that just as you are making progress,
For it to resurface.
To have an episode on a good day. 
To have the bad days out number the good days,
For weeks.
To be brought to your knees by a deficiency in serotonin.

Depression is like climbing a rock wall.
Just when you are almost at the top,
You lose your footing.
And you fall.
All the way back down to the bottom. 

But you dust yourself off 
And try again. 
Gripping the rocks,
And pulling yourself to the top.

To only be swept to the bottom again.

And sooner or later, 
You will get tired of being knocked down. 
You will be left exhausted,
Due to attempt after attempt. 

You will begin to ache all over. 
You will start to lose motivation.
You will start to think that this is all pointless. 
Putting in all that effort,
Only to be knocked down,
Again and again. 

You won't want to continue.
You will lay at the bottom of the wall,
Looking up at it.
Until someone comes along,
And offers to climb it with you. 

You are addictive,
A drug I can't quit.
You give me a high 
that I keep chasing.

You make it stop.
All the bad things.
Gone.

Every little voice whispering mean things in my ear,
Gagged and secured away. 
Every insecurity is forgotten,
If only for a short time. 

You make the numbness go away.
When I'm with you,
I feel.

You make me feel emotion again.
And it's scary.
Numbness is what I've grown to know.
But though feeling is scary,
It is exhilarating.

The way your words make me feel,
Is something that I've never had before. 
Your compliments,
Make the butterflies who were peacefully sleeping,
Rise in a frenzy.

Your voice sends shivers down my spine 
When I hear you call for me.
Your hands,
Are the best things in the world.
The way they push and pull.
Makes pleasure run through my veins.