Stream of Consciousness-Night

Sadly, it is the case that I have held on to love in all of the wrong ways. This is probably due to me never quite learning how to love healthily because no one before me taught me how. It is on these days that I wish she would just hug me and I wish she knew what truly went on inside my chest as I typed these words onto keys with the hopes of letting the floodgates open, letting them rise so that the water would pour through and stop building all of this pressure within me. I wish it were understood that I have limited control of these feelings welling up inside of me and pushing me outwards because I can no longer hold this inside. I guess we are all alone in our pain here and don’t quite know how to cross this chasm to hold on to one another anymore. It is regretful that your mother never knew what it meant to love that little girl now a mature woman that has faced the world and faces it daily with struggles and persistence, but I don’t think that I am nearly as strong as she who came before me for I tear apart at the seams too easily. It is not without repercussion to be near so much death and to wonder if my time will come too after all that is dealt with at present. It is difficult to sit in a dark room with a lump in your chest and this looming feeling of uncertainty, of the thousands of what ifs that I struggle to get to. I am a stream of light outside, but inside I am still very much full of night.

If I did not write, I would end.

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Black Skies and Birdsong

I wonder if you spoke to the stars in the black sky, would they listen? If I were to confess all of the things welling up inside my chest if that would make a difference—maybe I’d tell them all of my secrets. The night sky blankets your eyes and your ears, yet you still see the flickering candles way up high and can hone into the nocturnal birdsong. Crickets are like a drum line, playing their repetitive beats only to be disturbed by the loud sounds of music of people who celebrate everything that there is to celebrate in life. I say I’m as black as my shirt, as black as the outside corridors and the broken concrete fences waiting repair. I am like my house, an unfinished product, a byproduct of cortisol and dopamine. Perhaps this is what melancholy feels like. The body still tunes in to pleasure, but the brain doesn’t ignite the same ways it used to. So this brings me back to the night sky… Why tell it anything if it’s too far away to hear me? Maybe it’s better to gently place this weight on the soaked grass and perhaps it will provide my resuscitating roses with adequate nutrition.

Dark Gray

Your true color is dark gray, muddy, half devoid of substance as if it couldn’t be enough. Your halo is gray and tilted to one side and I saw cracks in your demeanor. For a while I looked at myself and saw some of you reflected as I slowly turned light gray from a pure white. Your color is dark gray, beautiful, but grimy and it brings me down and I wonder what it must feel like to carry that weight with you of pouring out uncontrollably as you hold on to fragments from when you fell to the floor and shattered. I am an act of self-love, in constant motion, and ever so willing to give the little pieces of light that I hold in my hands, but I can’t share that light if all you’ll do is obscure my path.