it goes like—
it hurts.
you can’t hear me through the gasping breaths, and so you ask
“what?”
“it hurts.”
but i can’t hear me through my beating heart.
and i start to believe that it wouldn’t be so bad
if it didn’t beat anymore.
my mother tells me that happiness is a choice.
so why then would i choose to feel this way?
my vision blurs when i lay on the couch
and stare at the blinds for too long.
i don’t like this drunken state of unknown.
i might feel motivated in two hours.
i might move, i might shower, i might eat a bite of food.
or i might drop to my knees on the floor;
clutch my heart.
i don’t like this drunken state of unknown.
it hurts. it’s the clearest explanation.
“why don’t you meet up with friends?”
asks a friend whose physical distance from me
keeps us from meeting.
anxiety joins the table with the mere mention of social obligation,
and why would i want to show up at the table
with depression and anxiety disguised under “plans” with friends
who would be chained to the empty table with me,
for i undoubtedly would show up empty-handed.
i have nothing to offer to myself and even less to party.
it hurts,
and even in its numbing pain, it hurts
like a gentle reminder that i’m not allowed to be happy.
i cannot be happy,
and then i forget what happiness felt like to begin with.
but then i find it in the memory of your arms
making me feel safe, wanted, and the numbness
is blocked by the all-too-real breathtaking pain,
and i’m gasping again.
nights are the worst. and mornings.
and those moments in-between.
and i feel peace only when i can sleep, but i can’t sleep.
insomnia becomes my only friend,
save for the broken nights and i, so well-acquainted.
and it hurts.
Hey It's Tay 