I confess...
This poem is a closet of my dark secrets.
At 17, I fell in love with loneliness
For the first time and it has been
A tug of war
Between my heart and mind.
My life is a box
Of broken crayons and floral dreams,
A landscape of vintage funerals,
I live in a plastic bubble
Where days
Aren't leisure walks in the park
Often, I tiptoe on needles and pins
And nights are scheduled
Mental surgeries,
Crying is an acquired allergy,
I sleep
With a bottle of cheap whiskey
And double dose
Of over-the-counter sleeping pills,
Most days,
A blanket of dementia is a welcome treat
And a dull hangover
Never fails to save the day,
But I'm not asking for a band-aid
or a first aid kit
For a permanent ache.
A stranger once told me
I walk with suitcases
Of skeletons and hand grenades,
And I kiss
Like a chance passenger
About to miss the last flight out,
But I forgot to tell him
About the times
I missed appointments
With my therapist,
I guess he doesn't know
About the times
I desperately wanted to be saved.
๐๐๐๐๐๐๐น๐ถ๐
05.30.21
ยฉamsterdam
A