hallucination (Haiku #18)

pictures in motion
realistic on their own,
but no one else sees.

I Need You

I can hear your heartbeat across the miles that separate
your hospital room from my classroom. It’s straining under
the weight of years of life. I am sitting here
thinking back to every time I’ve cried in your living room,
every time I hid in your bathroom to get a second
alone, every time I ran around the kitchen table
or played basketball in your driveway. I sit here with water
swelling my eyes thinking that it might be over soon. I’m
not ready for this to be over. I’m not ready to
let go of your voice when you complain about the three
papers on the table that must be cleaned because the house
is a wreck. I am not ready to walk through the door and
not get bombarded with questions and accusations
about what I must have been doing while I was away.
I sit here crying. I cry and I just want to run to
your house because it’s the only way I know how to keep
my heart in my chest and my brain standing still. You are my
safe place, my playground, my sunrise. You are my smile after
a week of struggling. But you grasp your chest and gasp for air
and the clouds I created to block the future from my
view are lifted a little more.
I don’t want to see this.
I don’t want to lose you.
I can’t let you go yet.
I can’t loosen my grip.

I’m Not Sorry Anymore

She remains, muttering the same two words
Bruises cover her delicate framework
Blood stained, on her scraped knees looking upward
How did she fall for his every small quirk?

Now she spends her useless time dressing wounds
Thinking back to the times before her love hurt
Her tears form lakes, depression all around
His hands always return to squeeze her heart

Electricity fills her crippled bones
Tension rises with the shake of her hands
She pleads, he screams without a change of tone
The air escapes her lungs with his commands

Her courage heightens for a mere moment
Left her life behind with one last movement

Generation Gap

They look down at me spitting words like
lazy,
dependent,
internet-crazed,
I wasn’t like that when I was a kid,
adding to
boulders already on my
shoulders.
This is
not
my
fault.

I am from the generation of hand shaking nausea and beds that haven’t seen sleep in years.

The generation of counting a piece of gum as a meal and
ripping open our wrists in hopes of feeling
better or feeling
something or
nothing or
maybe we’re just really good at
destroying ourselves.

The generation of quiet
tears at 3AM, holding our breath and
sinking our teeth into our blankets
terrified of waking our alcoholic father or abused mother.

The generation of helpless children
clawing at locked doors. We didn’t ask to be put in this
goddamn room and half of us are
stuck wishing our parents had a better understanding of
birth control. Maybe then everyone’s
lives would be easier.

The generation so painfully aware of the
mistakes of our ancestors, this mess
hanging above our heads like the
chandeliers we only see in movies.

The generation of struggling to remain breathing.

Of brightly colored hair and
stretched earlobes and
“how do you expect to get a job looking like that?”

Of falling short of expectations,
but when we were playing with dirt and rocks in the backyard,
we never would have expected to grow into
this.

The generation of desire.
Of wanting.
Needing.
More than what we have in front of us. Maybe that makes us
greedy but we are
not satisfied jumping from therapist to therapist,
staring at bookshelves of journals at midnight when
no one is willing to listen.

The generation of loneliness.

I am from the generation of trying.

We are trying.

I am trying.

A Loose Definition of Okay

Tears stream down my face and you look
at me like you’re watching a lion that
escaped from the zoo, waiting for me to
attack. I’m not attacking, but you back
away slowly as I fall to the floor.
“Don’t worry,”
I say forcing a smile to appear on my face.
“I’m okay.”
But you roll your eyes, shake your head, and take another step back.
The tears won’t stop and you keep walking
backwards, step after step. I’m sorry.
I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
I’m sorry you’re here to see this.
I’m sorry I can’t hide this.
I’m sorry I want to run away and never come back.
I’m sorry I thought I could make it through a train ride without crying.
I’m sorry I didn’t stay home by myself.
I’m sorry I ruin everything.
I’m sorry I’m ruining us.
I’m sorry I’m still here.
I’m sorry I’m still
alive.

You’re a million miles away now and I’m still stuck.
Sinking.
Into the ground where I’ve been standing.
Sinking.
I’m not stopping.
Sinking.
Drowning.
My head beneath the water.
Barely breathing.
Losing.
Losing myself in the knots tangling my thoughts.
Losing the smile I used to fake to keep them from questioning, to keep myself from crying.
Losing you.
Losing
me.
Suffocating.

I’ve reached the bottom of the ocean, but I can
still see you getting better.
I want you to get better.
I need you to get better.
Please get better.
Please don’t forget about me.
Because, truth is, I’m not okay.
I’m not okay. I’m not okay. I’m not okay.
I’m not fucking okay.
I just took my first step out of the house I built when I was 5 called
denial. Now I can see the
cuts on my hips that keep getting deeper.
I can see the weight I’ve lost since the last time I ate a real meal.
I can see.
Everything.
I’m not fucking okay.
I need help.
I need someone.
I need someone to stay.
I need
you.

Please come back.