whispering into our pillows,
how many years until you forget my name?
There are days where I filled with the need to move. Those are the days that I go on runs at crazy hours, the days that I fervently make plans without thinking about my time constraints or responsibilities, the days that I go out and ply as much alcohol into my system as possible, looking for euphoria, looking for mistakes. They are days that I don’t sleep, or stay up until I am physically knocked out, doing homework or organizing my dresser at 3 in the morning.
Then there are the days where I am filled with nothing. I shovel food into my mouth until I’m beached on the couch, then I fall asleep before the sun has even set. I sit on my bathroom floor and wait for the tears to come, although I have to wait a while because my body is too tired, too apathetic, to summon a response. My past feels like humiliation and my future feels like a black void. I don’t want to do anything; deadlines feel like they belong to someone else even when they’re on my threshold.
I know what this sounds like, but I don’t think I am actually sick. It would be easy and maybe comforting to diagnostically label my emotional health, but I think I am just a volatile person, and I wish I knew better ways to deal with it.
Postcard from Wherever
A refugee beneath stars which turn deserts silver
beneath my leathered feet
i throw prayers up through the holes of my makeshift roof
they fall down on the scattered dying embers, a wanderer
down the brick paths of Maine
numbered streets to trails that plait up into forests of the Great Lakes
escape is now my habitat
i’m a few miles from the border and i think i’ll head across
burrow into the blandness of some cropland outside of Ontario
maybe there i can remember
what summoned me afoot in the first place.
