Sincerely October

Retelling and rewording

A set covering topics I have written about many times before.

Writer's block
One day the lines stopped coming to me, yesterday I was pouring over with ideas and words and now I cannot think of anything worth writing about.
I almost don't know what to do with myself when I am not writing. In my life I am either writing or waiting until I can.
I don't know what I am if not a writer, writing has been something I know for sure about myself, the list is getting shorter by the day.
I always have a story replaying in my mind and writing gives it a place to live, but recently I don't know how to detail the stories.
There's a hole in me when I am not writing, I don't know what I would do if I stopped writing. I feel that I am walking around an empty home.

August depression
I feel like I'm rotting, I can't tell if I am getting better or worse.
I walk through my day doing all the things I should do, I text my friends, I take notes in school, I pack my bags, I do all the things I should do, but I am still left empty.
I find comfort in nights like this, when the sun sets and I listen to my saddest songs I've ever heard while writing the same poems over and over again.
It gives these stories a place to live, a place that's not within me, a place that doesn't feel like admitting failure.
I start to wonder if this is just the way life is for people like me. Is this just how it is? I know that I will feel that is not true in a month's time but I always come back to it.

Having it
As much as I hate it I find comfort in the ache.
I don't like returning to concealing things, to having a new list of things I can't talk about, but this is what I wanted, right?
This is what I'm looking for, isn't it? This will fill me, how could it not?
I want to crawl into the dirt when I'm on the phone with him explaining things. How could I admit it?
I know that this is not as promising as it seems, but it's enticing, why wouldn't I want this?
At least I go to bed knowing I'm closer to what I want, that I'll get there one day, even if it kills me, I want this and I will have it, I am tired of pretending like I see a point in doing anything but this.
I'll get on my knees and leave myself aching for as long as I feel inclined to.
I know that this is unlikely to be satisfied, but still part of me believes I will find it, even if it doesn't exist.

October
For some time it seemed impossible to admit, out of anything a person could be this is by far the worst.
Maybe it is a strange way to be, but I withstood the storm, and for that I am grateful.
If it weren't for the pieces I was left in I would not have survived, and I am glad I did.
I do not fault the child I was for becoming fragmented, because it was that or dead, she did what she did to life through terror, and for that I commend her.
I wish I could go back in time and hug her. I wish I could tell her that it's not because she's asking for it, lovely little girl, this is not your fault, it never was.
I wish I could go back in time and tell the self who was picking up the pieces and tell him that he is beautiful and unbroken.