Everyday I ask myself,
“What am I doing with my life?”
And sometimes… I feel fear when the words escape my mouth–
Like they are running into the unknown,
Quickly being ripped away from me
Without giving an answer to the emptiness I am left with.
I meet a crisis everyday.
I ask myself when this anxious feeling will end
So I can begin again,
But I haven’t found the solace yet.
I haven’t discovered relief from the questions.
Today I ask myself,
“Am I a part of the living, or am I closer to death?”
This isn’t what I asked for.
I asked for freedom and confidence to open my hands and catch promises,
But I feel crushed by a suffocating loneliness that bids me to go to bed.
My eyes close and I let the darkness fall in on all sides,
because I realize I am afraid of myself.
I am not content with sitting up at night, listening to music,
Writing in a bed made for one person.
There’s this empty space beside me, cold and unloving,
Reminding me of a time when it was filled.
Now I’m filled to the brim with emotions,
Holding my face in my hands,
Wishing he was here to listen.
But I am quick to forget how it felt when he listened.
He listened to speak,
So he could tell me the image he wanted my body to portray.
He pulled me into his world and eclipsed mine in a blanket of
Black and white devoid of any of the color I created.
So I trade a warm body for solitude,
And tell myself I am strong, and I can be strong alone.
I am scared of a lot of things.
I’m scared of ISIS, terrorism, disease, and people hiding in the dark, waiting for people like me. I am scared of him. I am scared of being alone, and having no one to go to. I am scared of disappointing my parents, getting pregnant before I get married, and not making it into grad school. I am scared of school. I am scared of losing everything, and dying before I get the chance to live,
But I love running outside in my bare feet, and making up words to songs. I love driving when everyone else is sleeping, and pretending like I am the only person left in a small country town with a name no one seems to remember. I love talking about nonsensical things with friends, and drinking underneath the stars that fall along the river.
My fears will not stop me from walking outside, and breathing in freshly cut grass, or the crisp mornings lining my windows. My fears will never leave me, but my love for life, and for people, will fuel enough excitement and energy to search for more.
More than black and white, and more than memories left behind in pictures.
I am writing this blog so I can continue to move past the darkness pressing into my sides, cutting into my lungs, while I look into my past. I want to breathe again, but first–I need to start from the beginning. Or maybe from the middle.
This is me.
A Poet's Pen 