Sincerely October

Rainy nights and blanket forts

Poems written as a sanctuary during a dark time.

Gloomy tuesday
You spent so long in your little dark age that you have trouble admitting when it's raining again.
You were unwell for many months and you wish more than anything to never go back to such a life.
Admitting that you can hear the raindrops hit the roof feels like admitting you have failed. It feels like admitting that your darkest period is moving into your life like a fog, a fog that you have no way of knowing when you'll get out of.
But, the truth is things are different now, you are different then you used to be.
You know better than to chase after the honey that will never fill you, you know better to look for happiness in the same places you lost it. You understand entirely that these moments of gray mean nothing about the pictures you've painted.
Most of all you know that the fog is nothing more than a chapter of a book you are yet to finish.

Pages to be forgotten
You know what's true, you have for years.
You understand that ignoring the way you are won't change the way you are, you know that looking away won't change the mess that is in front of you.
You don't want to be this way, you have never wanted to be this way.
The whole concept makes you feel unloveable, it leaves you wondering.
Who would love someone like that? Who would want to spend their life with someone like that? Out of everything a person could be this seems high on the list of unacceptable traits.
You know otherwise.
You know that he doesn't dread you for this, you know almost nobody would ever look down on you for having a mind that works the way it does.
You understand that shoving the truth into the back of your closet won't change the truth. You know that well.
You have tried to make peace with yourself, you have filled notebooks with what you know to be true only to throw out the pages when the sun shines on them.
You want to accept this, you want to be whole, but you can't seem to do anything but look away.

Four leaf clover
You have come to realize the many ways in which you are lucky, even in your darkest hours you carried a four leaf clover in your pocket.
How lucky you are to get the chance to live and breathe, many of us choke on our vomit and ride this out until the bitter end. Even when you didn't want to live you were lucky to be able to.
You've met so many people who hold the same story like an ache in their chest, and out of everyone you've ever met you feel that no one was heard quite like you were.
Your mother and father believed you when you told them what happened. People look at you and your pain and do not make up a story to deny what was true. Your parents want you to be happy. Your parents want your happiness more than they want anything for you. They love you, the you who looks back in the mirror not a painting of what should have been.
You were born into a time in which you can play on the boys soccer team when you don't look like they do. You can be who you are unrestrained and unfiltered. It hasn't always been like that.
You have a world of music sitting in the palm of your hand. Should I be a hippie riding home from Woodstock today? Should I be in my tiny new york city apartment? Should I waltz with a ghost in an empty castle?
You found passion very young. You picked the flower of poetry at age fifteen and it hasn't wilted since.
Despite the rain you have lived a sunny life.