a collection of completely legitimate poems

Aching

I ache with the desire to catch my breath. I ache with how deeply I want to enjoy the sweet summer air, I ache with how deeply I want to be excited for my birthday, I ache with how deeply I regret letting myself circle the drain like a clot of blood. I ache with the phantom pain of happiness that comes after a fall like I took. I ache with how close the finish line was, how I was jolted back at the last second, watching other runners speed past me while I cried out, a knife at my neck and no eyes on my struggles. I ache from the very memory of my happiness. I ache from its absence. I ache with all the ambitions I have, and how they go nowhere, how I indulge in worthless pastimes that I can't stop, that I'm endlessly shamed for. I ache from the disappointment in the voices of others. I ache to think of how I could have been happy the last 3 weeks instead of miserable, how much I could have done. I ache with jealousy at what others do, not incapacitated by what I am. I ache with the inability to express my pain without a diagnosis as my crutch. I ache with how they can never understand. I ache with how I still like him, I ache with how I shouldn't, I ache with the appeal of the horrid, the forbidden, by feelings, the feelings I should love, corrupted by society, the voices inside me. I ACHE with anger, unspent screams for him, and her, and them, and those who will never listen. I ache, and I ache, and I ache with sadness. I ache with the fall of a momentary high. I ache with the things I used to do, lost to the drugs, the screens. I ache with the falling grades and rising expectations. I ache at the chains that bind me, at the inability to have feelings without disclosing them to her. I ache, and I ache, and nothing I do will make them understand, so I need to feel bad for myself. I ache with how much better they are than I am. I ache and I ache and I cannot feel relief.