it’s not that you hate talking about feelings.


you just hate talking about mine.

because you don’t understand;
the internal hurt.
the emotional surge begging to escape,
the way i hate myself for everything i do,
and how one word from you could make the world light up again,
or cause the end of it all.

we listened to bon iver while i drove you home,
that final time.
i had a feeling it would be the end,
but i didn’t say goodbye.
now you’re too far gone,
nothing but a memory and impressions on my skin and the smell lingering on my clothes and the empty bottle of wine.
and those small things you left behind,
insignificant to you,
but they make up my whole world.
now i listen to bon iver as i pass that road,
and can never muster up a sufficient goodbye.

i still remember the way your hand felt
wrapped around mine as we jumped into the water
loose at first,
just encouragement.
but then tighter as you saw how nervous i was
and then firm enough to turn my hand white because
you thought about what might happen
and we jumped
fell farther
our grip loosened
and farther
looser
farther
looser
until finally
we hit the water
the impact was hard and frightening
and all at once
you let go

if i had to say how i feel
i would say empty
but it's really overflowing.
empty just sounds better.
because overflowing means i have enough.
but i think i have too much of the bad
and now there isn't room for the good
the overflow spills down and covers the floor
fills up the room
and covers my head
and i drown

i hate to be asleep,
but i yearn for the feeling of tiredness.
i’ll continue to rub the sleep from my eyes,
and push myself to stay awake,
if it means you do too.