And after the metal and drums stopped occupying space in my mind,

I walked across the city, my city

The apartment, my apartment

And I wasn’t so scared to let go of your hand

I walked across the city, my city

Whisky straight from the bottle

Your face on each stranger

Just like you once were

The apartment, my apartment

Much to small for our noises

I watched as we crumbled

Within eight-hundred square feet

And I wasn’t so scared to let go of your hand

Once it didn’t make sense

I still have the scar from falling into the shower

Fading by the day, by the day

somewhere between a grey and blue

the sky cannot decide it’s hue

i walk beside the railway tracks

of what’s to come and what has passed

graffiti layered on the car

i stop to let my mind roam far

the chill is soft, a winter song

i’ve never felt like i belong

in this city, locked by land

sands of time run through my hand

i think i’ll leave, i have to go

but darling i will miss you so

the west is calling out to me

to manifest my destiny

the road to myself is paved with green

and hues of autumn inbetween

i met some friends along the path

and found a way to slow my breath

the road behind is dark and grey

an utterly overfilled ashtray

though encouraged to forget

there is nothing for me to regret

with open heart and open mind

a purpose being now defined

i walk the road all paved with green

to find myself a life serene

I think you know that letting go of your hand is the only chance I have of suriving the mighty current. I think you know it is yours too. I think you know that when we finally let go, the rushing water will pull us in seperate directions. I think this is river is harder to manage together, I think you know we are sinking each other. I think I will loosen my grip and give life to my lungs once again.

“You’re not really going to, right?”

I smile and nod

and nod

and nod

to reassure the people around me that I’m not, so they can smile and walk away and not wonder all the while if they’ll see me the next day. I’ll go cliff-diving if I want, surf at night if I want, cry to sleep if I want and that’s no one’s business, is it? Imagine that--being a perfectly normal person with a perfectly normal family and perfectly normal friends, choosing to get dragged down by the weight of someone else’s abnormal problems. Now that’s crazy. I have no grudges against people for wanting to assure themselves that they tried and then leaving unscathed by the maelstrom brewing under my fingertips, before I reach out and taint them, too

paint them this miserable hue

pain them to a bruising blue

gain not a friend but a fool because which idiot throws away their happiness for their friends?

I guess I did.

I hate myself for saying this only because Society has taught us to love unconditionally and give limitlessly and if you choose to mind your own business then you’re not minding the depressed girl in your English class and you should feel guilty when she bites it. But damn, if you’re giving limitlessly then you’re pulling out the heartstring tangled up inside you to sew someone happiness and you’re cutting at the knots and you’ve never done this before so what happens

when you build a cocoon that’s trapped both of you together, instead?

Now you’ve doomed yourself and helped nobody nowI’vedoomedmyselfandhelpednobody because instead of slowly winding together a sturdy rope and pulling him out, I dove down headfirst on a whim and the string snapped and we both ended up in the

C M

H S

A

Yeah, I’m a horrible person, but I used to believe in something good, and if I can tell you not to be so naive then maybe I can stop you from losing yourself, and that’s good in itself, isn’t it?

Last night, I tossed and turned and cried and wailed, but of course, nobody heard me. It wasn't like I wanted attention or anything, I just wanted to be listened to. It's been going on for a couple weeks, this feeling of incompleteness, I guess, or helplessness. Worthlessness, maybe? It's not entirely boredom, really; I'm just unoccupied. I finish listening to a podcast, I complete a puzzle, and the thing I love doing is over. Now, today, all three of those things happened. I went to find the next option on Spotify, and the playlist was up, the voices that had filled my ears for weeks and months since August, had finally run out of things to say. I scoured the box for the last piece of the puzzle, an ocean blue bit with an air bubble that lodged itself into the slip of space between the yellow fish and the turtle's underbelly. Game over.

This hit me especially hard because I love puzzles. I love that podcast. They made me happy. I sit in bed now and want to cry. But it's a different feeling from last night. I'm terrified of last night.

In my lifetime, I've had so many a lonely day, a melancholy evening, and a I'd-rather-not-get-out-of-bed-right-now morning. I've listed the many ways a person can die. I've thought about my options, and once or twice, I've considered the nuclear option. But I've never pushed the button. I've laid my palm on my throat and pressed my face into pillows but never hard enough. The missile never launches. The blood rushes to my head, ready for the countdown. But the engineer says, "Hang on, the president says stop." And that's all I need to gasp for oxygen again and forget why I ever wanted to stop.

Last night was, to be completely truthful, the closest I've ever come to not waking up the next morning. And I feel awful admitting that, knowing that I'm being ungrateful, wanting to take something that wasn't mine to begin with. I'm being hypocritical because every time someone makes a post like this, admitting their own vulnerablility, I encourage them, say you'll pick yourself back up. How can I say that to someone else when I can't even tell it to myself?

I set dates. I like numbers. I like probability, but most of all, I like certainty. Sure, surprises are fun and all, but I want to know when and where I'll be the next day to prepare my outfit, gear, and whatever else I'll need. So, I give myself deadlines. I say, "Tomorrow, you've got a history test." I make plans to call a loved one the following Tuesday. It makes me remember that if I do leave, I'm missing out on something. I'm missing a chocolate milkshake I promised myself or a marathon of NCIS. I'm missing a warm hug or a kind interaction. I'm missing a Youtuber's upload schedule or a night where the stars are brighter than the headlights, and you can see Venus with the naked eye and my dad loves that kind of night, so I want to be there to see it with him.

That's how I get over the unhappiness. I promise myself that I'll run tomorrow or stretch in the morning. Set an alarm, mark it on a sticky note and tape it to my door.

I think that's why I like puzzles and podcasts. There's something to look forward to. The red coral piece slides into one open patch, I just know it. I wonder what they'll talk about tomorrow. I'll lay awake with a grin and open eyes, silently giggling about the quip that only my ears are privy to in that moment. I dream in puzzles and podcasts. I dream at night. The dream ends, and I wake up. That's certain for now. I love certainty.

when she dies, i want to remember her as she was to others. but

not as my mother.

not

in

the

way

she

infiltrated my life

like it was hers and never mine.

i wish we had created a world enough for the both of us. big enough to fit your pain and mine. i wish the garden we made together had grown. i wish there had been a big open room for you to love me the way i needed you too. i wish you had cleaned out the boxes from your childhood, made space for your addiction. i wish i had built a castle for myself, one where i could get away from you when i wanted, where i could paint my trauma somewhere other than the small and crumbling walls of our world. i wish we could have broken out, instead of staring at the rolling hills outside of the tiny window. i wish you had found the way out instead of me. i wish i could have left the room with you. i wish you had wanted to leave too. i wish you could see the world i made for myself. it has a garden. i wish i could show you now, but seedlings are fragile and i’m afraid they would shrivel. i wish that someday you will grow a garden of your own because you deserve to watch it breathe.

you decided to blackout on a tuesday evening, yes that was your choice. i sobered up the moment you compared me to my mother. the next day, your cheap, russian vodka was mysteriously gone. i had no intention of telling you the truth so i told you you had spilled it all on the walk home. but really, after puking out your poison, you slumped on my bathroom floor and i wrenched the stupid bottle out of your hands. i took a shot and dumped it down the drain. you chose to be an asshole and i chose to act in a way that disassociated myself from my mother. not sorry.