To whomever think I am writing about them: I am.
And it was them
Who gave me this,
This desire to write again,
Yet it was also them
Who make me want to stop,
Make me want to stop
Tripping over backpacks,
Or fawning over those necessary haircuts,
Or crying over raised voices.
And it was them
Who gave me this,
This repugnance for the invasion
Of personal space;
However, it was another
Who has never made me want it more,
More from absent instructors,
More from missing peers,
More from validating covenants.
And it was them
Who gave me this,
This undying yearning
For the consumption of literature,
Yet it was also them
Who prevented me from ripping books apart
Out of rage,
Out of nostalgia,
Out of anguish.
But it was I
Who gave me
The will to live after being rejected
For having Aces on my heart,
And it was still myself
Who pulled through
The ailments of my anxiety
When there was a raised voice
of a Lily of The Valley with emerald leaves.
And it was because of me and them
That I am the fluidity of everyone I meet
And the obscurity of myself,
Broken or cemented together.
a.f.b.
a.h.s.
j.g.
j.r.m.
l.a.b.
l.e.r.
