I wonder sometimes if I’m sick. What it means that I have a bottle of whiskey underneath my bed. What does it say that I only fall for people I know I can’t have? I pour my heart and soul into relationships with men and women older than me, married, taken, mentor, boss. I pour myself out then close myself off.
I hate that when I look at the night sky, I don’t know if I’m looking at a star or a satellite.
I’ve lost my father, my grandfather and my grandmother, fallen out of love, then in love and then out of love, all in the span of a year.
I’ve been gutted. Cleared out and all that’s left are tendrils, hanging, reaching toward each other, trying to connect, heal. Trying to form a new heart, kidney, lungs.
The only time I can feel anything is with something in my hand.
I’m bleeding internally and it hurts like hell. My insides are throbbing. But I can’t feel them. Sometimes it’s like I’m numb. Feeling and not feeling. Phantom heart, phantom lungs.
I remember what it is like to feel. And I’m sure I’ll feel again. I do it sometimes. Spontaneously. I’ll realize I’m laughing, or smiling without it being forced. I’ll feel an urge to kiss a cheek or hold a hand. Tears will spring to my eyes and blur my vision. Rage will burn like coals in my belly and I’ll be heated.
I’m a poet without poems. I’ve writers block and words come out hollow. I turn phrases and they’re heartless, soulless. Where is my passion?
Where is my soul?