Sometimes...
I wish I could speak
without the fear of being accused.
I wish I was allowed to suffer
without it all being in my head.
My anxiety is like a black mark
and it's a shame that they're right
while being wrong all the same.

Sometimes I want someone to love me
like I wish my parents loved each other,
but the emotions are too difficult
and my mind erases them as soon as they come.
And my want for love is erased
by years of pain others have caused
by hands that were supposed to mean gentleness
but instead brought pain.

Sometimes I want the sky to fall
so I can be among the stars
if only to remind myself of what I wanted to be—
and what I could have been—
but was left with a cold void instead
surrounded by light that blinds me.
It cannot reach me because I block it out,
yet I want it so close it burns me.

Sometimes I don't know what day it is
and the times and years bleed together
just like the blade bleeds my skin.
And the bloodletting of emotions turns black
and it numbs only to bring on the silence—
the silence that I fear and love.
And I see and hear the voices
that remind me I can trust no one.

Sometimes I write letters several times a year
and they end up in a pile gathering sorrow,
and each letter becomes more detailed than the last
and I fear their existence
because they speak a truth
that will bring me punishment,
and I am left silenced in fear.

Sometimes I wish I could communicate
without my neurodivergent tone upsetting everyone,
and I watch friends leave and tear me down
and I am a monster with a sharp tongue
that everyone translates into a meaning I did not intend,
and I am left confused and filled with self-hatred
and I stir the vitriol by simply being sorry.
I can never climb out of the hole they dug for me.

Sometimes...
I wish I could be inspired by happiness
rather than pain,
yet I dwell in these shadows beneath the moon
and they are my home and where I belong
and they watch me as I sleep
and I cannot help but love them
because at least they are honest.

Sometimes...

Sometimes...

I am lost,
and I cannot complete the cycle.
And the world spins while I remain stagnant
and I die a little each time
but it is a show,
and I am the entertainment,
and you see my gaping wounds bound in paper
as if they were merely dead flowers.