#inkstained thoughts

[mx-inkpot-faye]

Maybe we’re doomed.

Maybe life sucks.

Maybe it’s all scary and overwhelming.

But maybe you’re here with me anyway,

and maybe that’s enough.

Maybe we’re alive together,

and that’s enough.

[mx-inkpot-faye]

My Almost Brother

You taught me something I’ll never forget.

I’m starting to forget your face.

I have one memory with you that will always stay with me.

I have one photo of us together and I don’t even remember when it’s from.

I know your name,

but just the first part.

It’s not enough to find you.

How are you doing?

Would you be proud of me?

You could be dead and I wouldn’t know.

Would you like who I became?

I don’t think of you that often.

You are someone I’ll never forget.

Do you even remember me?

[mx-inkpot-faye]

Chills, shivering, a hot flash—

The thermometer beeps; a normal temp.

Not a fever so then why?

Phone out, searching for answers—

Anxiety, anxiety, anxiety.

The shivers, the hot flash, all explained.

Fucking stress, fucking anxiety.

But you doubt and doubt—

Because no diagnosis, but—

You know.

Your mom knows too, says she’ll get you meds.

Must’ve forgotten that conversation.

Headache forming; stressing about stress.

You settle in bed,

You already know you won’t sleep well.

[mx-inkpot-faye]

Sometimes I feel like I’m losing it.

No, not quite—

On the edge of it though,

A fraying thread.

The kind of on the edge made worse by

A hole in your shoe when it rains,

Sock now wet and foot damn cold.

The kind of frayed thread ready to snap

At the dropped pen when you need it to write,

Picking it up off the floor with a shaky hand.

And everything is too much too much too much,

My head feels like it’s full of molasses

And my body jolts with stress chills.

One trip, one scuff, one drip—

One tiny little thing,

And I’m falling

Snapping

Losing it.

[mx-inkpot-faye]

Nauseous

Your fingers tease the hem of my shirt,

and I’m nauseous at the thought.

There’s something I haven’t told you,

and I’m nauseous at the thought.

I wonder if you’ll leave me due to it,

and I’m nauseous at the thought.

It’s what everyone expects,

and I’m nauseous at the thought.

Will you think I’m broken?

I’m nauseous at the thought.

Edit: Now with the counterpart poem “Pull Away” by @thoughtsofapasserby

[mx-inkpot-faye]

And I am amazed to find that these people, my friends, actually like me.

I am amazed because I do not like myself, and so I never thought anyone genuinely would.

[mx-inkpot-faye]

Perhaps finding you was fate,

but loving you is a choice,

and it’s one I’ll continue to make

forever and always

[mx-inkpot-faye]

Speaking is so very different from writing;

I stutter over words,

and trip up on sentences.

I am not nearly as well spoken

as I am well written half the time.

My poems can be edited;

my voice comes practically unfiltered.

I do not sound like a honeyed dialogue,

I do not speak in sugarcoated text;

Instead, I sound of an unfinished melody,

I speak as cracked stained glass.

Because when I talk aloud,

there is no backspace.

There is no crossing out lines in pen,

there’s no pausing for minutes at a time.

Because talking aloud

is not the same as writing, or typing.