Tag: writing

Loss

I feel a loss—

But loss sounds a lot like lack.

Lack of security 

Lack of confidence in my identity 

And lack of consistent thinking,

Because I am losing a sense of self 

By searching for belonging in someone else.

Loss sounds a lot like help.

I want someone or something to help me find the words I need 

To validate my emotions and expression 

Because I am used to asking permission 

For those things.

Loss sounds a lot like death.

Like something in me has died, and I can’t find myself 

My words and movements are repetitions I use to look like everybody else 

Too afraid or scared to say a word that will turn into an argument I am not ready to fight 

Loss sounds a lot like my thoughts,

A mixture of chaos and movement,

In a constant wave of up and down

As I try to figure out what is

And what is not.

Loss is myself.

I haven’t figured out how to see myself through a lens that isn’t clouded by “good” or “bad” judgments.

I haven’t felt the self esteem rising through my bloodstream to remind me of my wholeness. 

The only piece of me that feels confident is expressing my lack of it in my writing.

Misscommunication

Maybe it’s because of the thoughts I have

That drown out what is real,

And what is not–

Maybe it’s my mouth replacing the air with water,

Heavy in my lungs,

Afraid of what will come up

Once I try to connect the words in my mind

To the sounds in my throat–closed.

I want to protect my heart from the heavy weight I hold

When I see you,

But I’ve realized I can’t see you.

How can I see you when I can’t see myself,

Or when I look around and find no familiarity in my surroundings?

Grey is now permeating everything I see—

So first, it starts with me.

I choose to remove the weight

And look forward to my day.

I focus on being present

When the past is pressing in on all sides,

Forcing me to hide.

I focus on having patience

When I feel wasted by

The people surrounding me on a daily basis.

I focus on communication,

And protecting my mind and my heart

from the forces around me asking me to change who I am

For them,

Because I am worth it.

I will say it over and over again,

That I am who I am,

Fallen and imperfect.

I love the cracks in my hands and freckles on my skin,

And the excitement I get from a small moment.

I ask nothing to forgive,

I only ask for a conversation,

Not a misinterpretation.

I ask for someone to see me past expectation.

See me as a living and breathing human who is prone to making mistakes.

See me as you would see yourself at the end of the day—

As a person.

Don’t Leave Me in the Dark

Sometimes I smile out of habit.

 

I don’t notice when it’s dishonest,

Because I’m so used to convincing myself it’s true.

You can fake it so much that it turns into your reality,

Even when you are pretending.

 

But sometimes pretending seems more familiar to me than reality.

I continue repeating and hearing the sound over and over again—

Feeling the stretch across my skin—

Feeling the void of emotion—

“Please forgive me.”

 

My thoughts cry for forgiveness from this notion

That I will never be good enough to

Measure up and be the version of perfect

I want to see—

Or feel in my body.

 

Maybe perfection would give me peace,

Or maybe it would destroy me completely.

 

1 2 3

I need time to breathe

Or to time my breaths

By 1…2…3

 

But the counting creates a mood of apathy

and emptiness

Like I can’t stay awake like this—

And I’ve missed the reason

For methodically breathing

In and out.

 

It’s broken down for peace,

Not destructive thoughts

That beat up my heart,

But slow beats so I can stop and think,

And count to slow down every word racing

In my mind.

 

I want to stop hiding behind a glass wall.

I don’t want to wait for it to fall

Just so I can tip toe around the glass pieces

Holding distorted reflections of what I used to be.

Or how people see me.

 

1…2…3…

I don’t care what they think.

I care about finding the light behind the door I closed 4 years ago.

I care about holding time close as I think about the future I don’t know.

 

1…2…3…

I know what I need.

I need to stop thinking, keep counting, and move into the place that is meant for me.

 

I want to be free.

Paper Planes

Breathing is like pen to paper—like a paper plane flying with writing hidden inside a single page—

Who will get the last say?

Who will find the message left behind?

Maybe it will land in the water and become a boat holding all the hope an entire ocean can hold—

Maybe it will go its own way on a journey to a new place.

Maybe it will find me someday.