Poems written on the first day of September.
Tw: addiction
Being seen
I have spent my life pretending, we all want to be seen but that doesn't mean we die knowing we were.
I felt as if I couldn't tell anyone the full story.
I wanted someone to read my book without the editing, but that day hadn't come.
Such a strange feeling to be known but not understood, to be acknowledged but not seen.
It left me aching, but really I would rather be appreciated for what I show rather than judged for what I don't.
This is not because I like the feeling I get in my chest when I know I'm hiding, but because that hurts less than the sting of being seen but not loved.
I despised this sense of being unknown, but what else was there?
Last night I was not only free to be ruthlessly honest, but understood.
I was not what I pretend to be, I was not left stinging, I showed him everything, anything, and I was matched with a warm feeling rather than a weight in my chest.
Not only does he see me, but he is me, we share more than I ever thought was possible.
There were no half truths or white lies, I took every skeleton out of my closet and after I had shown him each one I realized that I wasn't all that strange after all.
For the first time in my entire life I feel like someone knows me for what I am and not the part I play.
How lovely is it to be seen?
The nights ending
I have a type of hope in my heart that feels like a sunrise.
It reminds me of watching the sky as the sun comes up. You know the day is coming.
Seeing this bright light rise from the ground is not about the times ahead but the moment in between.
I have no understanding of when the night has ended, I will not know until the day has begun.
But I will not rush the sun on his way to the sky.
Honey
Addiction will forever be the experience of my life with the most conflicting perceptions.
Nothing quite compares to how beautiful life is after the honey.
Not an apple in the world is sweeter than honey.
I call it honey because it oozes and seeps into every moment.
It's the strangest thing to see yourself slip into what you thought you were better than.
Because I knew it wasn't going to be pretty, I understand that I am, I always have, but if it were as easy as knowing we wouldn't be here, would we?
I see that it's not what it used to be and that I am not who I once was.
It seems that despite my prior understanding, the sense of warmth, nothing will ever be enough.
I do what I do because I do it, this is no longer a stroll in the neighborhood, this is a chase after what I am unlikely to find.
It's never the same as the first time.
Yet I find myself holding onto it as tightly as I can, I hold it closer than almost anything.
An explanation is something I struggle to explain.
The postal service
I think when this chapter has ended I will hear these songs and be vividly brought back to what once was.
I don't know what tomorrow's nostalgia will be, I don't know much about what those days hold, but I know what happens to this soft melody.
Today I am interviewing for a job, my first one actually, in less then a few hours I will be hoping they don't mind the mud on my shoes and under eye bags.
I believe it was yesterday that I realized I do not have to live here forever, this house I am rotting in is not my home, and I will do the things I can to find one.
Last night I told someone more truth then I think I ever have. I rambled endlessly, although I may have talked a bit louder then he did, we both agreed nobody knows us like we do.
When remembering these times I will remember the late nights spent either feeling like things will never get better or seeing the sunrise through my window and having moments of hope.
A defining concept of this time is my green pen and what will come from it, maybe it will be nothing, nothing at all, but I have a sense it is more than that.
Unfortunately, a glaring truth of this time is the fact that I am struggling to move past what happened. I push and push and push left to wonder why his photos are still up, and why they still talk about him at the dinner table.
I hope I don't forget how much I cherish him, I expect this crush to stay nothing but that, but those moments of connection make this mud easier to step through.
As these pages fill I know I will not forget this time, even when my memory fails me, the story has already been told.
YOU ARE READING
Letters from sixteen
PoetryA poetry book I wrote during periods of my life with many different facets. I wrote about happy moments, addiction, and trauma, the book becomes more depressing as it goes on. I choose the title "letters from sixteen" to capture how I wanted to capt...
