I’m the apologies spoken when they didn’t deserve it. I’m the stuttered words and trailed off sentences because no one cared to listen. I’m the closed mouth in a sea of words, too afraid to speak over the storm of sound. I’m the butter knives in your stomach in the morning when you wake up to go to school or work. When you have an important day ahead of you. I’m the thoughts that keep you up for hours. I’m the scenes that play out in your head that make you sick to your stomach. I’m the stitches over your lips when you want to speak but can’t. I’m the emotions that bubble up in your stomach that always get pushed back down. I’m the geyser that burns your throat and seeps out of your eyes when those emotions are tired of being suppressed. I’m the tightrope you stand on when you’re trying to talk about something serious. I’m the knives you throw into yourself, the cliff you push yourself off of, the ocean you drown yourself in, the bed of thorns you fall onto. I’m the pit that you dug out with your own two hands. I’m the words you never spoke that would’ve saved a lot of trouble. I’m the bravery that you lost when you “grew up.” I’m the childlike wonder that got water thrown onto it and melted. I’m your Icarus, who got too close to the sun and plummeted further than anyone could reach me. I’m the walls you’ve built up. I’m the maze with no exit. I’m the people who you let come into your life and destroy you beyond repair. I’m the ashes of your confidence. I’m the shadow of “what you used to be.” I’m the hellfire that you can never put out. I’m the shattered glass, the punched wall, the muffled scream into a pillow. I’m silence. I’m agony. I’m pain, anger, sadness, anxiety, depression, all of the things that you wish you never felt.
What happened? What happened? Life without resiliency is a life of a weed pulled out of the ground and tossed onto the concrete. A baby bird just born, thrown out of its nest. A project unfinished.
A life lived in glass half empty is a glass that gets drained out too quickly. A glass half empty is a glass left on the countertop, forgotten.
“Someone else will get it. I’ll leave it there.”
The life of a bird that picks at the meek remains of carcasses already gone after. The life of one that follows, but never leads.
Born to live and die always in last place.