literature

on re-learning how to exist

Deviation Actions

Published: Oct 17, 2016

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Literature Text

i.
count to twenty on your knuckles; they’re
bruised from beating on a closed door.
one. two.
three. four.
five.
fivefivefive weeks, nights, times i thought
just maybe…
stop. please, stop.
fold up those false hopes into your paper cranes like before
and stash them away in the same place you hid the lies.
search the room,
look for edges and corners to trace, just like the one
i thought i wouldn’t fall off of.
they didn’t tell me it would be like this.

ii.
breathe in the poison and learn to love its sting.
numb. i’m, i can't—
must breathe. must function.
focus, because
if you don’t let the emotions crawl under your skin,
bury themselves in your heart and claw out holes
where there was once warmth and light,
the shallow breaths will consume you
until there isn’t any you left at all.

iii.
lie in bed at four in the morning,
when the sun isn’t quite ready to wake up, and just
remember.
let yourself thrash and cry and feel.
feel the heartbeats behind closed doors.
it’s dark and i’m lonely and once upon a time
i would have had someone to lean on. stop.
grit your teeth. quit biting your fingernails,
hiding behind your hair and just taking it.
feel.
feel the pain,
the betrayal,
the anger,
feel the ache in your stomach that was your conscious
telling you to be careful.
i didn’t listen. why don’t i ever listen?

iv.
count to twenty on your knuckles.
one. two. three. four. five.
i should have known better.
six. seven. eight. nine. ten.
it wasn’t my fault.
eleven. twelve. thirteen. fourteen. fifteen.
this does not define me.
sixteen. seventeen. eighteen. nineteen.
nothing will ever be perfect.
twenty.
and that is okay.