Torn.
Like pages from notebooks,
ripped everywhere.
Like inkblots on skin,
marking even places
you weren't ready to look.
Like all of it is just
everywhere
and nowhere.
Thoughts scattered on the floor.
And people say,
My dear,
you're ever so quiet.
Your canter has changed.
Your cadence is upside down.
And all of the world is looking at you like,
Dance, my darling.
You were meant to shine.
Sparkles and glitter land on the floor
as I sit here
and stare at this paper.
Like it's a war.
Like the words are looking at me,
knowing what they need to do.
And I can't.
Because my thoughts go to you.
So I stack
and I tear
and I rip
and I write.
And no matter how they land,
the words aren't quite right.
It's like living in two places at once.
Your thoughts floating in a world that makes sense,
while you're standing,
drowning.
Still.
Like water.
And everything piles on top of itself.
Everything twists.
So you make a list.
What is.
And through it all,
you try to weave yourself back
to the person you once knew.
To the one they're looking for.
So you list
and you write
and you move
and you mold.
And you live with this idea
that you are who you've been told.
But all of the paper
just won't fit back in.
The words are smudged.
And the ink is coming from within.
So you stand
and you pace
and you move
and you dance.
You sit still.
You cry.
You crawl back under the covers.
And you just wish you could.
But you can't.
So you stand.
And you rise.
And you pick up the papers
scattered on the floor.
And you think,
maybe this is what it is.
Maybe
I don't need more.
—M💋
