Diaries of a Twenty-Six-Year Old Girl

The weight of words

Things are going well.

Well.

I never say that word anymore.
When people ask how I am
I say I’m
good.

Out of spite.

It’s WELL,
I can hear you scream in my head.

But I don’t care.

Things haven’t gone “well”
since you left.

I cry every day.
I pick up the pieces every day.

I’m learning new things.
I grow every day.

Except in that one sentence
I say
every
day.

The Next Door Neighbor

I started singing and now the next door neighbor hums when the window’s open.

Does he sing for you?

Can he sing for me?

Little Bird

Did he cross that invisible line?

I’d say so

I see you little Bird

You cried and said,
Please, please don’t leave me.

Those words bounced off me
like they meant nothing—
like you were nothing.

I cried.
Maybe not for you,
but for me.

For my inability to feel.
And for that, I am sorry.

Hate filled our cups,
Until it spilled from out mouths,
and you were blind
to who you thought I was.

I think it made you feel less…

A shiny, pretty thing—
yet you couldn’t understand it
and it was slipping through your fingers.

But I am not an object.
And I saw in myself
what you never could.