You’re worthless. You don’t matter. Your existence means nothing: you may have been something special before, but not now, and never again.
This isn’t me talking.
That’s Depression, talking in His sweetly sinister voice.
That voice has the ability to permeate the nooks and crannies of my mind. It is a noxious gas tainting my memories, even the good ones. I’ve been living with it for so long—more often than not, in eighteen years—that it’s difficult for me to ignore it.
It was cold, wet, windy.
Waves were crashing down upon my head, one after another, pummeling me into submission. Saltwater-soaked clothes like weights, dragging me down deeper into the churning frothing freezing liquid hell, anchoring me to the sea floor even as I struggled to keep my head above the current.
For every day that you and I meet, I hold on to the bus tickets.
At the end of the night, I pull the ticket out from my wallet and unfold it, smoothing the tattered corners, laying it flat before carefully placing it in the corner of my bookshelf, on top of a pile of other tickets. This has become a ritual of remembering: scattered in my closet like confetti, lining the bottom of an empty shoebox, slipped between the pages of a favorite book.
I have kept every scrap of cheap newsprint that chronicles our journey from the beginning, from our first bus ride.
But time makes you bolder, even children get older. And I’m getting older, too.
Landslide, Fleetwood Mac
“I’m happy we’re doing this,” you said. “We haven’t really talked like this in a while, and I’ve been wanting to speak with you.”
I perked up a little, trying to blink the drowsiness from my heavy eyes. I wanted to listen, to truly hear what you had to say. Then again, you never did have much trouble catching my attention.
I don’t like it when you’re away.
And I don’t just mean
when you’re far from the reach
of my arms.
I was drinking coffee this morning
watching the news
when the anchor said an accident had occurred
in the city where I worked.
The streets were all
too familiar.
On Facebook and Instagram, with a thousand followers, your carefully curated feed.
Scenes of nature: mountains, and beaches with water as clear as can be.
Beautifully plated food in a restaurant whose interior must have cost a small fortune.
Fashionable OOTDs of you showing off your physical perfection in a flowing floral skirt.
Photos of family and friends and your lover, all of whom seem as perfect as you, impeccably dressed, with Kodak smiles.
“4000+ chemicals, 43 of which are carcinogenic.” (From quitsmokingsupport.com)
I like you in the way I like my cigarettes – always onhand. A constant. I am always craving more. Always wanting just one more hit – one more kiss.
And yet you are infinitely better for me than these carcinogen sticks. And I don’t just mean good for my body. I mean good for my heart, good for my soul. Yet you both make me feel breathless.
that new car smell
a fresh pack of cigarettes
an unopened book –
newness makes us believe,
hope for something
better
than what we have
now.
if that’s the case,
then why
do i crave
the familiarity of
your face
your gaze
and
your arms as they graze
against mine?
newness
is overrated.
i long
for you
in the long
haul.
