termites of the page

This is what I miss most about myself.

I wish I could tell you what I’ve been going through—
how much the last three weeks of my life have affected me.

For the last three nights, I’ve cried. And honestly,
I feel like that part in Titanic where Rose says she’s screaming at the top of her lungs,
and no one is looking up.

I don’t know what it is about this time that’s different.

Four and a half years ago, I went through the same thing.
And aside from the obvious bad days,
I feel like I went through it like a champ.

I survived the death of one of my best friends.
Of course, there were days of doom and fuck-you-ery,
but even then—I knew when it was time to rebuild myself.

This time, I feel like I can’t escape.
It’s a constant war between where I would like to be
and where everyone else would like me to be.

I can’t find sanctuary in hours with my friends,
because my stepmom needs me.
I can’t confide in my dad—
because I don’t know who that man is in the hospital bed,
but he is certainly just a shell of the man I once knew.

So I cry.
And I tell the people who love me the most
how alone I feel
(when in reality, it’s the last thing I am).

I decided to take myself out of everything—
to put my phone in the closet and deactivate my Facebook.

I am too consumed by these things.
I don’t allow myself enough time to heal,
to rejuvenate,
to remember who I am underneath everything else.

So of course, my first step was to come here.
To pen these words down—
even if they aren’t beautiful or worthy of an editor’s praise.

Sometimes the rawness just has to be that: RAW.

I wish for a better time than now.
I wish to feel like me again.