Future English Professor
I wonder when the day will come I’ll be happy. I’m afraid my depression asks too much and I can’t help but answer its request. I think it’s getting worse because I stopped reaching out because being a burden is worse than being dead. Because when you love someone you want to make them happy.
I think it all started the day my mother decided drugs were more important than me. I think it continued the day I gave her the excuse of being human. I keep giving excuses for the people that I love, why they hurt me. I seem to give everyone the benefit of the doubt but it’s hard being a perfectionist when it only applies to you.
I think being a perfectionist started the day my father locked me in a closet and beat me. Telling me how I was horrible. Because I can’t make a mistake because if I do, I’m not worthy of love. I stopped shrinking inside myself because anger built me a slanted home. I was safe, because I hated myself. Because you can’t break what’s already broken. You can’t kill what’s already dead inside.
But in November I was reserected into someone who cared too much. when I almost died, four pill bottles, I was too vulnerable. My pain clawed it’s way out of my stomach and gave me a giant fuck you for trying. I miss my slanted home, I miss when my sadness didn’t spill over.
I am a frozen lake. I am pretty but you cannot touch me. My love is cold, it will swallow the warmest parts of you.
I am dead. I’m a joke with no pinch line, I’m two left shoes, I am a puppet with the strings ready to snap. 25 years and I’m still not brave enough to tell my depression “not this time.”
But I don’t know what’s worse, wanting to love someone but knowing you can’t because you’re used to killing. Or loving someone and killing them anyway.
If I write you a letter telling you how my wounds are the only thing I’ve ever known, will you be nervous to touch me?
I still write about the same two people. Because all I’ve ever wanted was to be loved, to be nailed to a cross, to be sacrificed, to be reborn into someone who isn’t so broken. Because if I wasn’t broken, you wouldn’t have walked away?
I say that in form of a question because maybe there’s something I’m missing.
I want to be buried with my in adequacy’s because maybe my body is shames final stop. I want to stop hurting things. Things meaning you. I want to be your favorite song.
But I’m trying to somehow glue my strings. I’m somehow trying to be summer, I’m trying to build my walls straighter. I’m trying to love the best way I know how. I’m trying to think of my mothers and fathers short comings as my child’s biggest blessing.
But today I am telling depression, fuck you. I’m showering.
Today I’m telling life, you are the best war I have ever won.
I’m sorry I’m not graceful about this pain.
I’m sorry that I can’t seem to pick my brain apart to realize this was for the best.
Because how could being away from you be what’s best?
I wrote your name on a piece of paper and put it in my pocket. I saved it for a rainy day so I could dance in the rain with you under the stars.
Just like in August when you proposed to me, we were dancing, you twirled me around and had a box in your hands. A blue ring sparkled back at me
Would you marry m…?
I have to wake up from this nightmare.
You’re not here to make me breakfast with smiley faces on the pancakes, or to wake me up with coffee under my nose or to tell me “I love you” before you go to work.
I thought of how much it was going to hurt when you’d see my mental illness and walk away.
But I never pictured you hating me because I’m too human. Because I feel too much and my words get jumbled and sometimes I don’t want to wake up.
I never wanted you to save me. You were never going to, but I wanted you to love me because that’s close enough to healing.
For three months, I’ve sung your name into battle. A battle meaning my shower. I keep screaming to the walls “bring him back, please come back. God do me this one favor.”
But god never said your name back to me, instead he marked the walls with “let go.”
If I don’t see it, it doesn’t exist. Because how can I let go of something that had so much potential?
I think of your shoulder blades and the bruise on your left shoulder that seems to never fade. I want to be that bruise. I want to be with you through every season, and watch your colors change.
I want to hold your hand in the car and sing you your favorite songs.
Please this pain has to be a nightmare.
Brandyee, you have to wake up.
I have to let go of the way you easily worked a room of people and made them laugh. How your conversations flowed like water, and I can see your smile formulate in the corners of my brain.
I knew the line between casual conversation and who you really were and I was grateful to know the parts of you that were locked away.
A sealed room with a missing key and I miss you so I try and open the door.
You’ve changed the locks.
This empire inside me is crumbling because you won’t tell me you love me anymore despite how many poems I’ve crashed my body into.
But you have my blue ring.
You still have my heart, you have this poem.
You have my three am I miss you text messages.
I’m sorry I’m not graceful about this pain.
A little over a month ago you told me “you stress me out. I want you out of my life.”
I thought of the color blue. The day we climbed on the famous New York tressel and you carved our initials into the wood. I thought of your purple stripped thermal and the night you wore it. I remember your hand gently touching my waist at that party where the girl tried to barge in the bathroom with you in it.
I thought of the color red because we met at target. I thought of the same breakfast you got every morning. I thought of our car sex on lunch breaks. How you bragged about me being yours.
How it was the first time the voice in my head told me it was grateful to be breathing.
I’m not grateful anymore to be breathing.
I wonder if you hate yourself when you think of how many months you gave me. I ask myself frequently what’s wrong with me because I was your shortest relationship.
This is the mountain I keep climbing. Forgiveness and self destruction are so close together I don’t know if there’s a word for hating you but missing you. Words are the only thing I have but I miss you doesn’t come across the way I want it to.
I wonder how many memories you’ve forced yourself to forget, if I’m a song you keep skipping.
If I write you a poem and no ones around to hear it does that mean I love you any less?
If I tell you I’m sorry, how many months will it take for you to feel safe with me again?
Am I selfish
He isn’t you.
Take my memory, please