I’m tired of being the one who cares more. For once, I want someone to care enough to see past the fake smiles and happy laughs to the cracks forming on my skin. To see the real me, the one I hide within. The one I am too scared to show.
i used to wait.
wait every second for a maybe
wait every day for something uncertain
i used to wait for him.
always waiting for the day
he’ll say “i’m over it”
the day future plans get fullfiled
i hate waiting.
waiting for him to say “let’s go together today”
to make sure he got home safely.
waiting for the day he’s ready.
the day it doesn’t him hurt anymore.
but all i got was “i like you but i’m sorry,”
that turned into “she’s my new dream”
four years ago I learned that if god or my mother or
a young boy with sticky hands
detached mount everest from the ground
and dropped it into the marianas trench,
the mountain’s snow caps would disappear entirely
beneath the trench’s waves.
I realize now that this indicates there’s more depth to this world
than there is an ability to rise,
which would explain why my antidepressants are cheaper than what I’ve spent while trying not to hate myself.
(“cheaper” and “trying” are both operative words here.)”
if something that massive,
that capable of consumption,
can be made into something small enough to be swallowed
so can this memory.
so can this map I shoved folded and solitary down my raw wizened throat.
I need to figure out how to let
go of this.