when I am gone and you remember me, I hope you're reminded of warmth.
It's morning, I haven't slept.
It's cold but I can hear the birds.
My friend used to tell me stories before he left.
He would talk about a deep void in his chest, then tell me to listen to the birds.
He told me that they would comfort me when I'm sad, but I'm still sad.
I miss him, but he's gone.
I miss many people, but I also hate them.
My head is full of many thoughts, but this morning is quiet.
It's 9:06, and I don't think I'll be sleeping anytime soon.
I hear a guitar buzz and suddenly my hands are timeless.
Did I spin thread in a past life?
My head is far too dizzy to understand why I must have you.
Who let her be like that?
Braces that lace her teeth
Her eyes are my favorite color
Who allowed her to be indescribably bright?
I want to hold the sun.
I am a poet.
I saw her and forgot how to write.
She is beautiful in a language I do not know.
It's April today. I saw people singing at a concert I couldn't go to. I wanted to, I really did, but I don't know anyone who could go with me.
I'm not special in feeling lonely.
I wish I was loved. It doesn't have to be romantic... I can't stand this silence anymore.
Recently I've been having the same thought over and over again while I lay to rest; "I wish I was loved."
I haven't questioned it until today because I'm sure we all have depressing impulsive thoughts. "I wish I was enough." or "I want to go home." Usually these thoughts come and go like a blistery day.
But, mine just hasn't gone away.
I want to be loved because I wish things were easier. Things would be nicer if I knew someone would hold me at the end of my day. I wouldn't vomit in my mouth if I had a hand to hold. I would feel better if someone told me I was good, if I was something okay at all.
I would think, maybe for a second, that I was beautiful. That one thought could keep me going for weeks.
I want to love someone too. I want to be smug and clever, I want to be gentle and kind. I want to see their laugh in the sunset and smile thinking about them.
I want my words and thoughts to matter to someone. I don't need the sun, I just need to be kept warm.
I hope to plant a garden of sunflowers to show my love. War destroys so much. I'm so sorry.
"Fuck." My blood was staining the small wood cutting knife. I sucked my thumb as I paused carving the tree.
Why did I tend to my skin? Just hours ago I was hiking up woods I'd never been in. I stepped ankle-deep into sea water without care. I kept repeating the words "What are you afraid of? Dying?" God, there's nothing that scares me now.
I continued carving again. My phone buzzed with another text which I promptly ignored.
It's funny how little you care when you stop attaching yourself to mortality. Nothing care harm you if you want to be hurt.
I stepped back to look at my name etched on the sycamore tree. "That was pointless." I mumbled.
My hands gripped driftwood. I was sat on a rock during the end of winter when my knife carved into the stick.
The wooden face began to appear more and more as the sun began to set. My body was shivering while my hand kept picking.
As I worked I noticed the lack of form. I didn't like it.
I threw the stick with a huff, I heard the sounds of rocks being hit. My eyes watched the soles of my feet as I heard breathing ring in my ears.
I looked up to see the sun setting over the ocean.
My legs stopped twitching as amazement gushed over me. My hands no longer wanted to pick so much at that driftwood.