Clover hearted

Mossy letters

A mixed, mostly happy chapter.
TW: depression

Small strange loves
She asks if she can call me Oliver, not because that's my name but because I look like it is.
I adore the little ways people exist in the world, the way he walks on his toes and his patchwork pants.
I wake up wishing to remain unconscious, luckily I am forced out of bed and I return home to myself.
I write diary entries, some pages long, some a mere paragraph.
I ramble on about my favorite books of poetry to a stranger.
I wear a broken locket reading "clover hearted."
I carry my favorite poetry book in my bag, the underlined words as a collection of tarot cards.
I have so much yellow hope within my chest.

Beating heart
I wake up with an ache in my chest. Maybe my heart will heal itself if I stay in the dusk room, I enclose myself into the dark.
My heart rate depresses.
I look in the mirror at my sleeping-too-much under eye bags and tired pajamas, I decide to stay in this skin.
My heart rate depresses.
I climb into bed and push the suffocating covers over me, the blankets larger than this body.
My heart rate depresses.
My father opens the door. "Are you getting out of bed?" "No."
My heart rate depresses.
I lay in the darkness of the bedroom counting my heart beat, I can hear the soft pounding in my ears.
80, 70, 60, 40, I can feel things begin to slow, I am running out of blood to pump, 35, 32, 31.
I think about a life in which my heart beats faster, maybe something exists outside these four walls.
I put on a beautiful sweater with a collared shirt, 34, 40, 41.
I step into the sunshine, mud, and rain, 43, 47, 50.
I talk to someone, we laugh and speak of small strange loves, 54, 55, 57.
I notice little things I love about people, his patchwork pants, her soft voice, her silly stories, 60, 61, 65.
I look at my heart in the mirror, unlocking the wooden door within my chest, 70, 76, 81

Everything else is fine
Maybe the collage of everything that I am is not what I once believed it to be.
"Get clean and everything else about you is fine."
I think it might be fine to be what I am. Maybe I am not something to run from.
Maybe it is okay to talk aloud when no one else is in the room.
Maybe it's okay to transfer to the boys team just to have a lovely crush on half your teammates.
Maybe it's okay to write easy poems that read like Shakespeare.
Maybe it's okay to live a life of contradicting selves, of selves with different names.
Maybe it's okay that the bruise of what happened never really heals.
Maybe it's okay that I can't read the room or do it like you do.
Maybe it's okay to ramble about poetry and write poetry about poetry.
Maybe I am lovable as I am.