Gone

“You’re never going to learn,” she thought to herself, in between all the voices screaming in her head. So overwhelmed with the option of just giving up. To accepting the facts. That she’s not even close to where she wants to be. Deciding that she must be that easy to forget.

It was nice, for a little while. The lies keeping her warm. A heart pretending to care. Believing in something that was never really true.

But then she blinked and it was gone.

Next time

Days later and I am waiting again. Because waiting is all I can do. A little lamb reasoning with a hungry wolf. Thinking it will actually listen. I knew just how many steps I should take, but still I kept on walking. Crossing lines and killing time that should have been used for another conversation.

I juggle the opportunities like running chainsaws and then wonder why I’m bleeding. A little pain goes along way, like echoes in empty spaces. What I want to say stuck in my head. The stairs go up, but they lead to nothing. Just more bricks in a wall that’s already been built too high.

If I was someone else this might all be different. Say good-night and that would be enough. Morning comes and it’s another day. But I’m still me and it will never be enough.

Closer

I guess I think I’ll find comfort in his answer. And when I don’t I ask again. Hoping for a different reply.

I start with the corners and work my way in, but this puzzle is never complete. Too many pieces that never fit, and not enough that do.

Part of the deterrent is knowing that I can only die once. If I don’t like it, I can’t try again. I keep thinking life might be better without all these walls. But it might also show me just how alone I am.

Believing I have nothing to offer the world that it hasn’t already seen a million times. Lost just the flipside of found. Assembling my future with tape and glue and then watching it all fall down.

Sometimes it feels like fiction. Choosing my words one syllable at a time. Counting backwards so it will seem like I am getting closer.

If only I could ever be close enough.

And then there were five

Counting the days like I usually count my steps. To and from, one mistake to the next. The sun sets the same no matter where I am. And rises the next day like a ghost from an unmarked grave.

It will feel good to say I've been there. Once I've left this place. It seems I'm not as accomplished at being alone as I thought. Conversations with imaginary people help pass the time, but my future remains as uncertain as ever. Hoping there might be someone waiting for me. Knowing I'm probably too lost to be found.

Nevermind

It was a stupid idea. To think that writing about any of this would change a thing.

I'm counting the days.

It's all I can do.

Touch

Crying slowly, like falling raindrops. A muted sigh that might be mine. So much sadness everywhere. I pull a tissue from the box and another grows to take its place. Life is nothing but repetition. People walk in just as easily as out. The red glow of taillights in the darkness. Raindrops on the glass making the most beautiful abstracts. Out of all this ugliness.

Faint words written in yellow chalk across the blackboard. A map, perhaps, to help me find that island. As lost as I have been, it makes me wonder if anything will be different there. It’s the lies that make the moments possible. Truth is little more than a nightlight that keeps us from walking into things.

If I go too far back I won’t exist. And then I’ll never be able to touch anyone.

This time

It’s worse than the emotion itself; having to pretend, sometimes, that none of this is happening. That these feelings aren’t real. Just everyday sensations jacked up on lust and passion. Most likely to settle back down once the excitement has receded. A smoldering pile of ash that will grow cold once our backs are turned.

The blade is dull, but it still manages to cut right through me. A cold wind from the north that refuses to accept winter is over. It’s always just around the corner, a hello or a goodbye. A selfish decision that has become the most beautiful of mistakes.

He asks me what I‘m thinking and I tell him. Like giving a stranger directions, or the time. And then I wait. For the cracks to form and the sky to fall. So certain I’ll lose him in the future. Counting my steps to a door that may never open.

There are many things he chooses to forget, I can only hope this will not be one of them.

Choices

It should be about making the best of everything, not the worst. The earth is made mostly of water for a reason. We can sink or we can swim. Sometimes life feels like floating, but in reality, we’re all sinking. So slowly we don’t notice until it’s almost too late. And then we’re reaching frantically for that hand. Any hand that can pull us to safety.

I always seem to want what’s missing. Thinking I can overcome the darkness if I just keep moving forward. My pain wasted on all these memories from the past. It doesn’t matter anymore, what happened then. Changing the timeline could erase us all.

The sky only falls on little chickens, but I find myself glancing upwards. The worst kind of angel is the one that doesn’t wait for death.

I saved you a seat

I don’t need light to see. What isn’t there. I can pretend in the darkness just as easy. Like empty boxes tied up with pretty ribbons. A door opens and the brightness rushes in; tiny yellow birds freed from their gigantic cages, overwhelmed by their own songs.

I feel it in the music, but it brings little comfort. Like broken glass tempting me to squeeze it. The choice an empty seat I save for a friend who never shows. Just more space to get lost in. Strings untangling, only to tangle again.

Words to write, pictures to draw, skin to touch. Telling my sad stories about what could have been. Searching for treasure that was dug up long ago.

If there must be someone in the darkness, it might as well be me.

Still shivering

Sometimes I understand. That nothing’s important until you feel it slipping away. Life’s elevator broken down between floors. Doing the math always makes me feel so cold. The answers that might fail me. I think the world is small enough to fit in my pocket. But I would never be so presumptuous to try it. Waiting for a suitable moment to force the doors apart. Thinking I’ve stood here shivering long enough.

Sometimes the numbers make sense, but most of the time they just take up space. Like words, or music, or colorful kites pressed to the wind. I’ve always preferred to take the stairs. Telling my stories to bored ghosts and the memories that echo there. Each step another paragraph or reason to turn the page.

Alone again, like empty cupboards. Tripping over my own shadow; feeling the wind before it rains. All my choices stiff with age. To be that little girl at the top of the stairs, peering into the darkness. More curious than afraid of what comes next. A snowball the size of the world in her pocket. Unaware that it has melted.