from cracks in the stone that binds me,
these words spill out.
I do not know what will come first,
or what will follow—
but I know they are from deep in my heart,
and I cannot stop them from spilling through.
there is only a shell of me,
and only a blurry silhouette of you.
from cracks in the stone that binds me,
these words spill out.
and within them, worlds of pain
that beg more to follow.
I don't know what comes first,
or how I'm expected to follow.
I am trapped inside a statue of myself
that does not look like me
but I know
that these words are from a well
deep in my heart
and I cannot stop you from reading them.
I cannot bare to move.
I feel foolish.
there are paragraphs upon paragraphs from me,
and not a single sentence from you.
there are pages and pages from me,
and not a single word from you.
there are songs, and poems, melodies sung from my bones,
and not a single sound from you.
what will you say,
if you see me now?
shivering in yet another defeat,
but not backing down.
I stand not unafraid,
I stand not undefeated,
but I continue on for myself
and only myself
and I hope you'll grow to understand that
with time.
.
.
.
from cracks in the stone that binds me,
nothing spills out.
there is nothing to come,
and nothing to follow—
there is a burning aching deep in my heart,
killing me softly in the night and leaking slowly but surely into the day hours.
there is nothing left for me here
there is no trace left for you.
from cracks in the stone that binds me,
new tears spill free.
and within them, a hollowness
born from overwhelming sorrow.
I don't see who goes first,
so how am I expected to follow at all?
dig my grave deep beneath these trenches in my chest
so that I might have some peace of mind for a short while.
yes, I know,
I am fine.
deep in my heart,
I have lied a million times to stay alive.
I cannot bare to speak.
I am foolish.
I escape back into a fantasy world when I am grieving myself again,
and it should not have to be this way.
my highs are taller than me,
and my lows pierce through the core of this dying planet.
this human experience feels designed to kill me—
I wonder why it doesn't win.
what would you say, older me,
if you saw me now?
shivering in the heat of the rain
caught in sharp pains and harsh touches that leave me bruised and begging for no more.
I stand afraid for myself,
I stand on weak, shaking legs,
and I don't want to keep going
because it is all pain.
but I go anyway.