Sometimes I crave something that doesn’t exist.

I can’t name it,

know it,

hold it,

hear it,

catch it.

All I can do is chase.

Often I forget that I’m incomplete,

and everyone knows that forgotten things are bliss for as long as they stay forgotten.

But all things come to an end.

Eventually remembering comes,

taking form as a flash of pain-not-pain.

It hurts me to lack the thing I crave,

but it isn’t a wound you can

See.

Describe.

Pin to the wall and analyze.

There’s a gap in me,

something crucial missing,

and it’s impossible to identify

because I’m wanting something that doesn’t exist.

I’m a beautiful, empty thing.

Maserati sans engine,

falcon without wings,

universe minus magic.

Instincts tell me if this thing was possible,

I’d never be able to own it.

Owning such an entity is an impossibility.

It would be a part of you and you it.

To know this thing would be to be real.

Or would it be to be fiction?

Am I the reality, or is it?

In my search for the thing that I need,

the thing that doesn’t exist,

I may find the truth

or at least something near to it -

I am not real either.

On those nights, she knew

there would never be enough.

Enough of anything to fill her,

not anything in the whole, wide world.

Nothing could make her stop being empty,

empty,

empty,

and make her feel.

Once, I told my closest friend at the time that I have trouble identifying my emotions, which means I can’t clearly tell you what I’m feeling in one moment or another. Good? Bad? I struggle to know. She was surprisingly understanding, but she was most shocked when I told her that I wasn’t even sure if I knew what truly being happy felt like.

My friend, stunned and a bit upset on my behalf, explained to me what happiness feels like to her. She told me of popsicles and sunbathing, grilling burgers and drawing with sidewalk chalk, smelling like chlorine and freshly cut grass. But the thing that struck me most was the way she finished, and I nearly cried when she said this to me.

”...and it feels like you could never be sad again.”

It isn’t your fault - this, I want you to be sure of.

What were you wearing?

They will try to blame you - this, I want you to know.

How many drinks did you have?

Healing will not be easy - this, you need to be told.

Did you lead him on?

They won’t stitch you back together - this, you will do yourself.

Were you alone?

They will try to silence you - this, you will fight.

But what about his future?

They will treat him like he matters and treat you like you don’t - this, you’ve seen before.

A conviction like this could ruin his life.

They will not acknowledge the damage done to you - this, you could have guessed.

He’s just a boy!

Eventually, they will realize something, and it is this.

We’re fucking tired of being quiet.

And with every ignorant, irrelevant question they ask,

we get louder.

With every statement that implies he is worth more than I am,

I shout a little fiercer, stand a little taller, fight a little stronger.

They say he’s just a boy,

but I am just a girl,

and I will not let them forget it.

There was something different, something new, hanging in the air that night.

She was pretty sure it wasn’t the curtain of tangy smoke that stung her nose but only made her want to breathe deeper. It wasn’t the distantly echoing melody of shouts and laughter, teenagers wreaking predictable havoc. It wasn’t even the snap-crackle-pop of the fireworks all around her, a consistently inconsistent rhythm doing a duet with her racing heartbeat.

She couldn’t identify it, but whatever it was made her face and fingertips tingle. The something in the air made her want to grab the moment, hold onto the night. Cling close to the memories-not-yet-memories and not let them go. Because the years would dull their rawness, the sharp youth of it all, and more than anything, she wanted to remember what it felt like to be here, to be young.

So she raised her arms from her sides and spun in a delighted circle, just once, because that was all it took to glue it in her mind, letting out a triumphant whoop to the glittering stars and the colorful explosions they danced with tonight.

For a frozen moment, time was nowhere to be found.

For a stranded moment, she was a statue, poised on one toe with arms flung wide.

For a single moment, she was happy, and she wouldn't let that go.

�

I’m sick, and there’s no disputing that.

Label it, why don’t you? That’ll fix it right up.

Why did you bother giving it a name, if no one listens to me

trying and failing to utter it?

[ I can’t make myself heard. ]

I’m sick, and you can’t see it from outside.

You don’t see it, do you? Tangled mess of my mind.

Why do I tell you “I don’t feel well,”

if you’re only going to ask “Well, does your stomach hurt?”

[ It’s not that kind of ache. ]

I’m sick, and please don’t tell me I’m not.

Why do you argue? It isn’t your brain doing backflips.

Why do you tell me that everyone needs to learn how to cope?

Is it just me who can’t figure it out?

[ Which of us is normal? ]

I’m sick, and giving my mind a title won’t change its state.

Sometimes I worry, did you know? That none of it is real.

Could I make it disappear, the twisting of my thoughts and panic of my soul?

If I just concentrate hard enough, could I fix myself?

[ Trust me, I’ve tried. ]

There are two kinds of words.

The first type is not real. Do not let them fool you. These words are only used in waking life, during the things that happen while you’re up and around and breathing. Eating lunch, getting groceries, going to school or work or the subway station. Phrases like these

i'm hungry shut up yeah, me too try me

you’ve got to be kidding what are you doing

come on turn left still gone or else piece of shit

and if you’re careful, you realize that when you look back, none of these words leave you with memories you can taste. A smudged blur is no excuse for a memory.

The second type is real. Do not forget they exist. These are the words you don’t hear from people deemed normal, but only from your nymph-like neighbor with her mane of frizzy blonde hair and voice like wind chimes, or from the homeless man on your corner with eyes so blue you can’t help but imagine that they swallowed the sea. These are the words that spring from paper, not human lips. Words like these

articulate indelible wishes forest powerful

broken laughter faraway brilliance raw

sprite magic haughty wrinkle forever vivid treacherous soft dreams journey tragic trace glimpse thoughtful natural muse lilting hideaway freckles

and if you listen, you hear their waves crashing, wind crying, flowers blooming, crystal shattering, smoke rising, fire crackling, streams rushing, and everything real about them.

Is it so bad to want to leave?

To drive away till nothing’s what I know?

Is it too much to want more?

I want sand on my toes and a breeze in my hair.

I want dreary rainy days and comforting coffee shops.

I want windows rolled down and music blasting.

Is it so bad to be tired of routine?

To want something different, new, anything at all?

Is it too much to beg for a change?

I want cobblestone and archways and brick walls.

I want colorful lollipops and heart-stopping rollercoasters.

I want tree trunks and trickling streams.

Is it so bad to want out?

To escape daily life, to claw my way from monotony?

Is it too much to need it?

I want fires and wild laughter, the smell of smoke drifting.

I want blooming flowers and puffy white clouds.

I want waterfalls crashing on the rocks and waves pounding on the shore.

Is it so bad to ask why we live the way we do?

Broken, bored, unhappy, growing worse by the day?

Is it too much?

I really thought I could stay away.

I didn’t need you, I was enough alone.

But moments of you and you and you

caught me, trapped me, and now I’m yours.

On the day your car stalled, and you slammed the door,

with posture sharp and swearing sharper,

there was nothing I could do in the moment, as I realized

you were. Just were, not more, not less, you were.

And the day that you laughed, when you laughed,

loud and sudden, surprised and happy.

Something struck you funny, and

the sound was a sweet slap in the face.

Or the day with wind blowing, hand shielding, cigarette glowing,

and I told you, Those things kill you, you know. Bad way to die.

You smirked at me, disaster that you are, and replied,

Darling, everyone has to die of something.

But the day you kissed me was the final straw.

It wasn’t the taste of your nicotine lips, or the touch of your hands.

No, when your mouth was on mine,

I’d never been so certain that I was real.

And now, darling, I’d burn cities for you.

I would do anything, everything, that you asked me to.

I find myself drawn to you, nothing I can do.

You’re right (oh, so right) and I’m nothing but left,

though I, by myself, am just empty.

And now, darling, I’d burn the world itself if you asked.

Everything about you drags me in.

Your laugh and your grin, your tears and your anger.

You’re blazing and fierce, a rich, righteous fire.

You’re a rock-and-roll song and I have you blasting, windows down.

And now, darling, I’d burn myself for you.

You are a road labeled Danger Ahead,

an obvious crash course, with neon lights flashing.

I can’t breathe and I couldn’t care less.

A hot summer day with temperature rising.

It gets harder and harder to gasp in air,

but darling, everyone has to die of something.