How It's Going To Be [Poetry]

going back to therapy

going back to therapy

april30twenty23

I miss you. I miss yesterday. I miss innocence unspoiled by taxes and applications. I spent my entire childhood mourning the childhood that never was, and I never realized that it was happening right in front of me. things have gotten so much worse than I thought. it isn't completely my fault, wait, stop. it doesn't matter who's fault it is. who said anyone had to be at fault in the first place.

I haven't written in what feels like centuries. lone raindrops rolling down a thirsty cavern, rainbow hues and new colors. it's all so stiff and skeleton, even though it must still be there.

he made me feel incomplete and I never fully recovered, never even fully saw. all those promised forevers, chained and shackled prose. I can still find me in there somewhere. it is so hard.

I miss not feeling anxious all the time, and friends from all sorts of faraway places. when we met we were barely teenagers and now you're graduating high school. my entire galaxy has shifted since then, and I wager yours probably has too, but I wouldn't know, because we aren't in touch. secretly this wounds me, but even more secretly I despair at my own powerlessness. I feel so stupid. so silly.

I thought I was finally seeing a peak, and lately I've been realizing just how far down I'd tumbled. somewhere along the way my illness stole my passion, and it's been backbreaking relearning how to live again. for a long time I lingered right in that sweet spot where art felt so liberating, like I could be very sad but be able to make something so beautiful. but then I kept getting more and more tired. and nothing was beautiful anymore.

and even now, this is backbreaking. I am forcing myself to write because I know I have to, because I have to let it out somehow, but I hate everything here. none of it sparkles or shines. I have one-off phrases run through my mind every day but they're gone before they manifest fully. I'm sad I can't write anymore. I'm very sad at the idea that nothing I write will ever satisfy me again.

my chest hurts so bad. I don't want to die anymore. why won't the words flow through me anymore? have I used it all up? did I really expend the best I had to offer in one-off poems that hardly anyone has read, much less been affected by? is this it??

I don't know any of the answers. I am so tired, even still. I want to run away so badly. I want to reach out to you and ask you how your life is going, where you're going to college, what's happened that I should have asked about before, when I was too preoccupied with the void to care about anyone else.

and yet this terrifies me. why?

I don't know.

I'm turning twenty this year.

my heart feels so empty sometimes

sometimes I just want to scream and scream and purge all this loss