I don’t know why, but lately I’ve been in a mood called “feel like crying.”
At the finale of a tv series
at coming home from my brother’s soccer game that he won
at a graphic novel
at a song
at waking up
at thinking about this summer, this August,
the prospect of my siblings’ graduation;
I don’t actually cry,
I’m fine, I got this under control.
But if I did
(Because if I did),
if the first tear plummeted past my eyelashes,
then my whole heart would come tumbling down too–
rivers run wild
mess on the couch at midnight
ribs so yawningly empty
nothing could ever fill the lake of me up again,
nothing could revive the fishies or fix the concrete walls,
just a gaping what even
what even what now–
I demand coherence outta you.
A breath could knock me over.
Send me careening into the canyon of “not okay” mentally, go drowning in the water at the bottom.
“not okay” like skipping meals to study the urge to skip meals, figure out why the urge exists.
go on a walk and just keep walking until it’s dark then just keep walking more.
don’t sleep at all tonight, just skip that step, I’ll be tired tomorrow morning anyway.
make no effort to reach out to anyone, they don’t care about the things I care about and I know that.
I could go careening into mental “not okay” space
but it’s literally all in my head–the canyon, my breath, the wind–
and I’m too aware of what unhealthy looks like
to let myself
fall out of shape
in this lucid dream of life,
plus, if I fell apart,
I’d ache like a lake devoid of liquid
fishies silently screaming
until I bottled it all up again.
I don’t want to ache like that, you know?
So I hold myself up from falling to a breath.