I think I've gotten accustomed to this acquired taste of anxiety.
I've got shivers travelling through my fingers
and if you look close enough it's sputtering out sparks
that could probably ignite some sort of ruthless wildfire.

Maybe it's because I've gotten so used to
these constant thoughts of how even the brightest
glimmers of gold tend to give way
and become dull at the slightest sign of ignorance.

Or maybe it's because I've gotten so used to
watching the seasons change
as quickly as those who've already left my life
and never looked back.

It's this constant badgering reminder of how life never waits for anyone
and there you are five months later wondering
how it could have gotten this cold
when you were just wearing a flimsy skirt the day before.

And I have no idea why my heart is pounding
to the rhythm of a drum I've never even heard
or why I'm already nostalgic for things I haven't even lost yet
because I can't seem to grasp onto anything without it

tearing apart
or disintegrating
or disappearing
without a last final glimpse of recognition.

I've gotten so used to holding in my goodbyes
and waiting
and waiting
and waiting until it's just
....
gone.
....

gone
like sunlight
only after five hours past noon.
gone
like that last bite of sanity
I've already digested three years ago.
gone
like that time I gave myself away
to a boy who only knew how to take.
gone
like the slightest bit of innocence I wasted
trying to hold onto something
and someone I made up so long ago.
gone
like my heart
at the slightest thought of you
changing your mind.

Please don't change your mind.

gd

You've got my heart as flat as stone,
skipping over water and trying
not to sink under the
weight of your
gaze.

God, darling,
I feel like a whirlwind around you,
trying to grasp onto some sort of stability
until I realize it's just always been you—

like the feeling of a swing at the peak of the climb
where for a split second you know you're safe,
expecting the drop, eager for the fall and
smiling at the realization of its simplicity.

You told me yesterday that it was
i  m  p  o  s  s  i  b  l  e

to truly touch someone to
the extent of their atomic make up
because it would lead to combustion—
a tragic explosion of sorts, but I swear that's
how it feels when you collide your lips against mine.

The atomic make up of our particles
come in contact far too  c  l  o  s  e ,
far too comfortable that it triggers

every
single
nerve
ending

of my body
creating a string
of static electricity
leading to my heart,
reviving and elevating
to a whole new level of
combustion.

You're golden darling.

gd

I'm finding it harder
and harder to express my
emotions and that's what scares me
the most: that when I'm buried six feet under
—lifeless and still—I will just become a product,
the dirt and the dust of the rest of this mediocre coexistence.
The emotions I have yet to form into sculptures and arrays of
picturesque light-scapes will have disintegrated with me under
the weight of the dying roots of every tree that was meant
to grow but never had the chance to. And in that
moment, wherever I may reside, I will realize
I have become the metaphor for the
tree that never lived—
filled with life but
restricted from the
ever present sun
light behind the
rest of  a  l  l  the
other towering
oaks from down
the path. It will
not suffice; this
lack of emotion
will never suffice
for me. Yet if I am
meant to live, why
do I already feel dead?

gd