Feb 04


Some feelings are too large to put words to.
They tug and they tear
and they pull and they rip
at your insides
until your existence can be summed up in that one feeling.
But you still can't force the words from your cardboard lips.
Crumpled pages from weathered notebooks
litter the floor,
joining the refuse from what feels like years
of staring blankly at the wall in front of you,
wondering why something that seems so easy,
is as hard as getting out of bed on the days the world is too cold for your firey heart.
It's been years,
of trapping little parts of yourself inside,
only letting them see daylight to write poems too full of metaphors to mean much.
Years of saying no to your defunct heart,
and sending it off with a slap on the wrist.
Years of making sure your gaze stays on the person you think it has to.
You've tried- you really have-
to tell someone.
Just one person to help keep your dirty little secret.
But that's the problem.
It makes you feel dirty.
But why?
You know it shouldn't.
That it doesn't, when you stop thinking
and just breathe.
Your crumpled notebook pages hold the answer,
but you're scared to re-read and revise.
It's a fight like none you've ever faced.
The knowing that you don't want to know.
But the needing to say it,
and feel it,
and let it be.
In the end,
it happens quickly.
A little awkwardly, to be sure.
But saying the words was all your heart needed to overtake the mean parts of your brain.
Saying the words was enough,
even though you knew there'd be an impact,
even if your confidante tried their best not to show it.
You were different now,
but not in a bad way like your brain had told you.
You were free.
You are free.