and it seems to me

that the stars have no chance of survival

when the clouds are gray. 

even the smell of rain seems sickening

when you've smelled it for too long 

there is an illusion, I can't breathe. 

but some clouds have turned to gold and red, 

splattered messily across a background of miserable fog, 

the air is once again raw and unconsumed by the world's grief.

I've yet again stepped outside with no shoes, 

the ground is a million needles of cold rock, 

they've told me I'll waste away if the cold touches my heart, 

but what does it matter when the sky is losing to a sunset,

what does it matter when the clouds are losing to a gold reflection of who you are. 

We could be anything or everything,

and perhaps, perhaps, 

there would still be a place for us in this gray, 

slightly gold, 

world. 

I used to write poems about memories of childhood rainstorms, 

when the sunlight sifted softly through the smiling drizzle

and the clouds smiled as though they had nothing to hide. 

But now, the rain does not hold a smiling face or the beauty of an untouched childhood, 

it is the raw reality of the blood it washes away in alleyways,

the tears it mixes with as it slides down windowsills and along sidewalks. 

It is loneliness, the toxicity, the forever flowing of a false friend in springtime, 

coming to the people who can't see the flowers, saying,  

"dearest, the storm will save you, put faith in the beauty of a spring thunderstorm" 

and that is why children are scared of thunder and lightning, 

because they can sense something's wrong, but can't recognize

what it is. 

and yet, here I am, sitting with the rain, 

letting it flow down me, cleansing me of something, anything, 

letting it take my tears like they were never mine, to begin with. 

the people would wonder, why I am standing out under the sky, 

in the middle of the night when the only people awake are those whose dreams haunt them,

why I am standing out under the stars-

oh wait... there are no stars, they have been covered by clouds, blurred out with rain.

I know it sounds dramatic that I went outside in the rain to weep,

my tears mixing with the water, the dirt, the toxins washed from the air, 

pushed into rain, disguised with petrichor. 

I know it's weak that I flinched every time the raindrops 

cold, unwelcome

hit my upturned face, but I had to be a part of the storm, 

I had to witness the loneliness of a tempest that has not calmed. 

or perhaps,

perhaps I was one of those people that the rain whispered to, 

telling me to put faith in a tempest

and perhaps, 

perhaps I believed in their lies. 

don't believe them, 

a storm is a chaotic, 

messed-up, 

lonely, 

toxic, 

piece of 

reality. 

and maybe I still love you. 

maybe every time I hear your name,

something catches in my chest

and my throat feels tight

and I feel like the world is ending for a second.

I laugh along with them when we talk about you,

it seems they have forgotten how much I cared,

they can’t see the knife stabbing into me every time I hear your name.

perhaps they think I forgot you, who you were, who you became, 

but every time I hear your voice, it’s an unimaginable ache 

from when you accidentally dropped my heart without hearing my screams. 

because it’s been six years, and I loved you too much to forget you

after one day of falling from hope into that realization

that we were never meant to be.

do not wish for that “unrequited love” that is so romanticized in fantasies,

do not wish to love or be loved, 

because when they drop you, 

without even turning to look at your heart which now rests on the ground

you will lose yourself in loss, claim you are over it, and then continue to love

as you always have, 

but the only difference is that 

you will be

broken. 

those voices in my head keep telling me what to do and who to be, 

they say, "no one wants you, what a fake and fearful heap of messed up dreams"

I push them back, trying to forget, 

I don't want to hear/ I don't want to listen to their hatred

but the voices get louder/ louder/ louder

and they shatter my ability to think, 

pieces of my intellect lie in fragments on the tired ground

I have lost it / I am lost

and if someone comes back for me, it is because

a tempest has begun within their mind. 

it will tear them apart until they cannot breathe because of guilt but

slowly the storm will end, the winds will fade into calm 

and they will turn and walk away without me /I am forgotten

but am I brave enough to calm the storm?

I'm like a dam waiting to burst open, 

carrying my problems, seeping /seeping

from my head to my shoulders, 

to my waist, to my toes, 

dripping into the earth, 

creating that inevitable entropy. 

what if I'm not a light, not a torch to burn away the shadows

but a cloud, darkness drawn to me like moth to flame?

each day, the rain feels heavier, 

I have fallen into a whirlpool that will never let me go/ I want to be free

I'm too ashamed to pull myself from the thick darkness, 

no one wants me back above the waves, so

as the numbness takes over, 

should I stop fighting back? 

why should I care what happens to me

when I am nothing but a weakness

an imperfection/ a flaw

I owe it to the people around me

to blame myself for the mistakes of our generation. 

I owe it to the memories

to become as perfect as allowed, as pristine as possible. 

but it feels so wrong,

when the night comes and never ends;

when I stay still and don't attempt

to steal the moon and stars for light / have I given up? 

why do I feel guilt crashing down on me?

I'm trying too hard

and giving up at the same time. 

those voices in my head keep telling me what to do and who to be, 

the night has come, the storm begun, 

but I'll turn and walk out of the rain, I'll steal the moon and 

I won't listen to those voices, I won't be phased by their fake and fearful

messed up dreams. 

When she met darkness, the night stretched on for miles, 

and it pushed her down beneath the frigid waves, and

cried out, "You're useless" 

the waves were rough, their gentle touch forgotten, 

pushing her around, twisting her until she forgot

that such a thing as kindness had ever existed.

Help me, darkness has reached its hands around my neck, I'm choking. 

when she met darkness, it decided to never let her go, 

the night was endless, the stars were stolen and locked away, 

none of their light could shine down on where she stood. 

there is no longer enough laughter to soften the edges of pain, 

no longer enough courage to fight back. 

Help me, the night is so dark, the stars are no longer there to give me hope. 

when she met darkness, it smothered her light beneath its icy glare, 

it could not be swayed or changed, 

it held her there, a light in its darkness, 

she asked it why. 

Help me, I can feel the light fading fast. 

when she met darkness, It took her in its arms and clung to her, 

crying and crying, tears melting the pitch black to a gray. 

"I wanted a light in my suffocating darkness,

I tried to bring the stars back but they were buried too deep in myself, 

I couldn't find them." 

when she met darkness, the darkness turned to light. 

To stumble and often fall,

as you make your way along an empty road

but despite the hopeless passion of your blank

& vacant world, you’ll keep going, won’t you?

have you often dreamt of running away?

alone & staring at the walls wondering what went wrong, you’re living a life that wasn’t enough,

now realizing how quickly you were forgotten.

you must be very brave, to keep going,

when you can’t even see a destination.

you must be very brave, to remember,

when everyone else, so easily, forgot.

sometimes, when the lights are dimmed

and you can only lie there trying to dream,

you hear a low cry of someone breaking,

the sound of something ending.

even the most beautiful things feel pain,

stained with hidden memories.

even the most innocent human beings are crushed,

by a world that no longer cares.

do you want me to come back for you?

if you’ve lost your way again in those shadows,

I will bring a light of a million stars of hope,

so we can find a destination at the end of pain.

do you want me to come back for you?

if you’ve been forgotten and left behind,

I will paint a portrait of your soul

so that you will never again be lost.

Another page, another sentence, another story. Another day, can I stop writing just once? Maybe just reread the stories? Then stop adding more, because we don't need to go on, do we? Or maybe, maybe our stories were poorly written, errors upon errors, mistake after mistake. Maybe we should throw them out before we feel a nostalgic urge to keep them? If we stop writing them, they will become mere memories, a view into a life that no longer lives on, a moment of a world that now lies still. How beautiful it would be, to let them become memories, faded and almost forgotten pieces of the past. 

Shall I pause for a moment to catch my breath?

Footnotes:

I found this in a stack of old papers from the fall, I don't know what it is, or what I was feeling when I wrote it but here you go. 

(So sorry, I usually don't post on here more than once a week or every other week but I had one more piece I would love some feedback on if you all don't mind? Thank you so much! Suggestions welcome :)

From when we were young, times that are now only remembered through memories and stories, and dusty photographs holding a memory in its hands, never to let go. It represents freedom, and an urge to disappear from what you know, to run away to a place that you can only dream of. The paint faded and peeling off of the old wood. My reflection not visible in the cracked and blurry mirror. Each shard of glass holding onto the faces it has seen and the stories it has witnessed. I have heard your adventure so many times, told in the dusty twilight of a summer day, or beside the fire while the wind and snow beat heavily upon our solitude. Given from hand to hand, and heart to heart; pulled from place to place. Showing up on our doorstep many years ago, to be passed on to our home, to our world; to be remembered when everyone else has forgotten.  Now sitting there, in unbroken silence,  you will wait for a time where we will remember. 

a simple memory, so fragile & could be forgotten 

it seems so long ago that we were there,

riding bikes in the dusty air of summertime, 

along the empty streets, & once in a while

the dogs would bark as we passed,

angry to be awoken from their summertime slumber. 

lying on top of so much history, so many stories, 

buried forever in the tall grass & sunflowers

that waved in the breeze as we passed. 

you're still there, aren't you? 

waiting, watching for me to return, &

for me to remember who I am.

sunset, lighting up the whole world 

those sunflowers glowing crimson & gold, 

and in the last moments before the sun disappeared,

they hold on to a moment of time, 

a reminder of those summer days. 

in the middle of a town where people rush around day & night,

in the middle of all those modern buildings, modern people, modern world

you still wait for me to remember; in all the golden splendor,

in the simple fragility of your untouched world, 

you wait for us to remember those summer days

that are now only memories, faded and almost forgotten. 

Wait for me. I'll come back.