poetic-overthinking

Four years, four months. I became friends with two people in that discord server. You and your sister. We made a minecraft realm, sat in voice chat and played our own separate games, but enjoyed each other’s company.

Three years, five months. Your sister started college and got too busy to game as often as us. We became good friends. We sat in voice chat for hours talking about life, family, goals, futures, the world. Sometimes we sat in silence. We were friends.

Three years, two months . We were still friends, but closer. We were siblings, platonic soulmates. Your sister was still busy, but had a more flexible schedule, so the minecraft realm returned. Her girlfriend was the fourth member. We had our town, they had theirs. We were happy.

Two years, seven months. We were both doing well in life. You were working on game development, I was an affiliate on twitch. Small goals in the grand scheme of life, but huge in the moment. We sat in voice chat and I talked about my future and how I envisioned my channel would grow, and you were silent but supportive.

Two years, four months. We were still friends. We sat in voice chat, you did your thing, I did mine. We talked a lot that day. We talked about forming our own beliefs, what makes a good person, what love truly is, what family should be, and so much more. It was a good talk.

One year, two months. I joined voice chat and waited. I messaged you and you didn’t respond. It got late, so I went to bed.

One year, one month. All of us were together again in the minecraft realm. Me, you, your sister, her girlfriend. You wanted to finish our town. We did. You wanted to try to fight the ender dragon. We definitely tried, even though we gave up in the end. We connected the towns with a path (decorated beautifully, if I do say so myself) and a river running next to it. Everything was done. We sat in voice chat and talked, all of us. We were together. We were happy.

One year. You had been quiet. I assumed you were busy with the holidays. Last we talked, your sister had said she was visiting home for Christmas. Family time. Your family was always so close.

January 1st, 2025. A rough day for me. I messaged our group chat, wanting some company, not really expecting a response on new year’s day.

January 5th, 2025. I messaged again, wishing everyone a happy holidays and spamming the chat with memes.

January 17th, 2025. You were gone. I was on the minecraft realm that day. I don’t remember what I did. It was supposed to be an insignificant day.

January 21st, 2025. Your sister’s girlfriend messaged me and told me what had happened. You had taken your own life. My friend. My brother. My soulmate.

I haven’t heard from them since. I don’t blame them, I’m not upset. I hope they’re doing okay. I hope your sister is still doing well in school. I hope your parents are in good health.

I wish we had talked more. I wish things could have been different. I wish friendships like this made sense. I wish I knew what to do with this grief. I wish it made sense to feel genuine loss for someone I’ve never actually met.

My side of the scale hangs lower than yours. My side holds my heart, full of love all-consuming. My side holds my heart that burns for you in ways I don’t have the ability to describe. My side holds my heart full of pain, fear, and grief that’s accumulated over the years and continues to grow.

Your side holds your heart, I think. It holds your heart and my all, everything I’ve given you to balance the scale. Your side holds my soul, mind, body.

Yet somehow the weight of my love is still so much heavier.

The weight of my love drags my side of the scale along the ground, my sanity in tow. I’ve tried all I can to balance the scale, but I have nothing left to give.

To love my grandma was many things, all of it beautiful in its own way.

To love my grandma was to have ice cream with strawberries, to build legos in the dining room. To love her was to laugh every time I forgot if her favorite color was yellow or green, and I don’t remember it to this day. To love her was to curl up on her cold leather couch with a blanket as she sat next to me on her laptop, criminal minds playing in the background. To love my grandma was to pick out a new barbie ornament for our pink Christmas tree every year. To love my grandma was to make fun of her for being so short every time I hit a growth spurt.

To love my grandma was to wish I saw her more, but to understand even at a young age, that she and my mother did not get along.

To love my grandma was to visit her every few months with my father, the joy in her face as I ran to her and she hugged me tight. To love her was to update her on everything that had happened with life, school, and how much my siblings had grown in such a short visit, knowing it would be a while before I could see her again.

To love my grandma was to be confused one visit where she told me she was proud of the young person I’d become, and knew I had a bright future ahead of me. We stood outside by her car and she told me all of her hopes and dreams for me and my siblings, to protect my siblings as their big sister, about her regrets for not putting her feelings about my mother aside to see us more, and how much she loved me.

And then we left.

To love my grandma was to be excited to visit the next day, so soon after the last, only to be crushed when I saw her. To love her was to stare, confused and worried, as I looked at this strong woman torn apart by dementia. The woman I loved yesterday seemed far away from the woman in front of my who spoke incoherently and couldn’t walk on her own.

To love my grandma was to see her grow progressively worse over the next year, To love my grandma was to feel guilty for wishing she would die so she wouldn’t suffer anymore. To love her was to sob when I visited her and she didn’t remember me. To love her was to let her yell at me when she mistook me for my mother.

To love her was to hate that she made it to another Christmas, knowing it wouldn’t be the kind of Christmas she would have wanted. To love her was to try to make the most of it, knowing that’s what normal people should do.

To love my grandma was to be relieved when she died.

To love my grandma was to feel numb at her funeral. To love her was to not believe she was gone because she was creamated and there was no body.

To love my grandma is to tell her story. To love her is to carry on her traditions. To love her is to have ice cream with strawberries. To love her is to decorate my own pink Christmas tree. To love her is to look after my siblings and live my life to the fullest. To love her is to love myself.

I feel regret. I feel regret for giving my heart to those who took it, only to return it in pieces for me to fix. I regret not holding on to the joy, the peace, the love I had before, no matter how much it hurt me. I regret thinking I could put myself first, when all I know is the opposite.

I feel shame. I feel shame for not knowing, not doing, not fixing. I remember the broken things, broken promises, broken homes, broken people, all given to me to fix with no tools, no instructions, no guidance, no help.

I feel grief. Grief for the people I’ve loved and lost, the ones who cared, who helped, who loved me back. I grieve a child who never got to be careless. I grieve a teen who never had the space to learn, grow, rebel. I’m grieving a person, a young adult, who doesn’t know who they are if not someone else’s belonging, object, servant. I’m grieving a person who only wants to love and be loved, know and be know, chose and be chosen.

I feel unheard. I feel unheard even though I’ve never spoken, never asked for help. I feel unsafe to be heard because those I have spoken to have used my voice against me. I feel scared to speak, even to those I believe will listen.

I feel lost. Lost in a new place with new people and new things. I feel lost in life, in love, lost hope, lost dreams. I feel like I’m screaming - begging for help, directions, anything - but no one can hear me.

I feel stuck. I feel stuck in a cycle of need - needing others, being needed. I feel stuck in this place, with these people, with these feelings, with these thoughts.

I’ve had denial, a blind, naïve, desperate stupidity. I’ve pretended to be fine, pretended to be human, pretended I didn’t want this pain of abandonment, uselessness, loneliness to win. I’ve lied when you see through the cracks of my facade. I’ve lied to myself so much that I can’t seethe difference between reality and this fantasy I’ve created.

I’ve had anger, a raging, violent, self-destructive rage. I’ve hated myself, you, them, everyone, everything, then myself again. I’ve resented you for your happiness, your carefree spirit. I’ve hated you for not helping me, then hated myself for not asking for it. I’ve screamed in a parking lot in the dark hoping to release this tight, heavy feeling. I’ve starved myself, isolated myself, done everything I know how to get rid of this hatred.

I’ve bargained, tried to find a way to make everyone happy, fix everything, live happily ever after. I’ve told myself that if I just try harder, my parents will love me. I’ve convinced myself that if I look hotter, you’ll love me, choose me. I’ve made myself believe that I’m not enough, that I’m not worthy of love. I’ve pleaded with God, the universe, whatever Puppeteer controls my strings, to give me the answers, to make me lovable and worthy.

I’ve had sadness, an all-consuming feeling of emptiness, loneliness, worthlessness. I’ve pushed through, smiled and laughed at the right times, even participated. Other times, I lay awake as you sleep, more peacefully than I ever could or will, and pray this will be the last time I close my eyes.

I’ve reached acceptance, as dark, hopeless, and plausibly incorrect it might be. I’ve accepted that I am nothing, have nothing. I’ve excepted that my future is not my own. I have accepted that I’m incapable, useless, worthless, unwanted, unloved. I have accepted that my efforts are and always will be fruitless. I have accepted that I am like my mother - unstable, harsh, neglectful, closed off. I have accepted that I am like my father - avoidant, ignorant, selfish.

I’d talk about life, every part of it. It’s beauty, it’s pain, the colors, the sounds, the people, the experiences. I’d talk about its importance and how we take it for granted. I’d talk about its finity, its imminent and cruel end, and how quickly it nears.

I’d talk about love, all of its forms. Friendship, family, partnership. I’d talk about the friends I’ve found that have become my family, as if I’ve known them since the beginning of time. I’d talk about you, the joy and pain of the love I feel for you.

I’d talk about possibility, its vastness. Places, people, opportunities. I’d talk about the places we could visit, places we could call home. I’d talk about the people we would meet and the ones we’d leave behind. I’d talk about a future - our future - where nothing is set in stone but life and death, love and pain.

But my silence grows quieter, deeper, darker, heavier - an unbroken vow to keep all of these words and thoughts hidden and protected. Protected from a world that has shown no care, no love, no respect. Hidden from those who wish to turn my words against me, forge them into a double edged sword meant to destroy me.

In spite, I will write. I cannot speak, so I will scream into the void, scream onto paper, scream onto a screen. If my words cannot be heard, they will be read. They will be read, seen, respected, and loved. I will be seen, respected, and loved.

Proximity means nothing to me, your nearness isn’t enough.

All I want is to be chosen. Chosen by someone, chosen by you.

I want you to choose the moments we spend together laughing, crying, silent. I want you to want this the way I do.

Love is a gentle hand squeeze that relays a feeling words can’t describe.

Love is hair ties on my wrist - not for me, but for you.

Love is sending random instagram reels while we’re sitting next to each other in silence, simply enjoying each other’s company.

Love is random trinkets that clutter my nightstand from adventures on Alaskan beaches.

Love is playing terraria late into the night even though I have no idea how to really play.

Love is weekly movie nights and long-winded discussions afterwards.

Love is a 20 minute call to vent about the bullshit healthcare system and a long day at work.

Love is playing dinosaurs and hug attacks.

Love is sharing, listening, and caring.

Love is understanding.

Love is found family.

Love is peace and safety.

If I could speak the way I write, I’d never stay silent.

If I could show you these poems, let you inside my mind, my heart, you would see me. You would see someone learning how to love, how to live. You would see someone with feelings so big that they threaten to pour out of me at any given moment.

You’d see how violently I love and crave you. You’d see my wish for us to have nothing but happiness and peace. You’d see my dreams of our future together.

You’d also see my fears, my pain. You’d see my defects, everything wrong with me. You’d see my ugliness, every blemish.

It’s selfish, I know, not letting you in. I know that you’d accept me and love me anyway, and that terrifies me. It’s selfish of me to protect you from me.

What if I’m doing this wrong? What if I’m moving too fast? What if you don’t feel the same way?

Deep in my soul, I know I’m overthinking. I know that this is just the process I need to go through to unlearn unhealthy habits. I know you.

What if this anxiety never goes away? What if I can’t unlearn what I’ve known all my life? What if this drives us apart?

What if I can’t do this?

There’s a part of me, as small as it may be, that fights those “what ifs” with all its might.

I never want you to doubt this. I never want you to question us. I want you to have the same peace and safety that you give me.

I want to be what you are to me, for you. I want us to be partners. I want us to be partners in life, in love, in struggle, in success.

I want to learn how to love you. I want to learn how to share my thoughts, emotions, my innermost fears, with you.

I long for the day when I can come home and be in your arms. I crave you, your peace, your safety.

I’m scared that I’ll fuck this up. I’m scared that I’m too much. I’m scared that you’ll accept me. I’m scared because you love me back.

My biggest fear is loving you as much as I already do. This love is all consuming and dangerous, a flame being teased with oxygen ready to engulf us both. This love is a hazard, we should both beware.

I’m worried that I’ll get comfortable. I’m worried that I’ll get used to your safety. I’m worried that I’ll take advantage of your love and end up alone in piles of ash.

I’m scared that I’m moving so fast, but that it still doesn’t feel fast enough. I’m scared that you’ll match my pace, but that only one of us will cross the finish line.

I’m scared that this fear is for nothing. I’m scared because I know you already love me the same. I’m scared because your actions reflect your heart. I’m scared that you’ll accept trust me with your love.

I’m scared because I’ve never done this before, and I’m scared as hell to learn. I’m scared because you’re patient and so kind and safe. I’m scared that we’ll learn together.

I’m scared of the future I want with you. I’m scared of the beautiful dreams and hopes I have. I’m scared because I want this.

It’s hard to breathe when you have something to lose, something so precious you fear it could be stolen in a moment.

I’m overwhelmed with possibility. I fear and long for a life of peace, a life that’s now within my reach. I fear this love that burns inside of me with such intensity that it burns all I’ve ever known to ash. I cherish this love that’s opened my eyes to things I could have never imagined.

Everything about this love is contradictory to everything I’ve ever known. I’ve finally found an example of what love should be. I’ve learned how to love not only others, but myself.

I’ve learned that I deserve peace, safety. I’m learning how to have hope. I’m learning that I am worth loving. I’m allowing myself to want good for myself.

I’m allowing myself to want to raise a siberian cat with you, allergies be damned. I dream of dinners in our living room in front of the tv. I dream of our dream home together, game room, library and all.

I’m allowing myself to love you and accept that you love me.

You have a way of making me want to be better. Not better for you, but better because you’ve made me realize that I deserve this. Without meaning to, you’ve made me see that I’m worth something, worth more.

You’ve given me hope, the healthy kind. The kind that was always within me, but you gave me the spark to ignite it. I have plans, a future. I have things I want to do, things I want to be. You’ve made me realize that it’s easier to live life when you have nothing to lose, but so much harder, yet fuller, when I have this love.

You’ve taught me stop and smell the roses, as cliche as it may be. I appreciate the little things; I’m content. You’ve shown me how to slow down and live in the moment and actually enjoy it.

You’ve given me the space and security to look within myself and grow. You’ve shown such understanding and patience that I’m overwhelmed.

You’ve given me silence and a peace I didn’t realize I craved so deeply. You’ve given me joy and laughter and memories to cherish for eternity.

I could write a thousand poems, research every language, scour every thesaurus and dictionary, but there are no words to describe this feeling.

Gratefulness, relief , contentment.

Guilt, fear, grief.

You’ve made me see that love is a spectrum. Love is dates and handing holding, worry and risk. Love is all consuming. Love is pain and healing.

Last night I dreamed that I fell asleep, but in the morning, woke up in our bed with you next to me. I dreamed that I watched you sleep peacefully, my love for you unspoken but heavy.

This morning, I woke up alone. My dream faded away with nothing but cold loneliness left in its wake. This morning, I texted you good morning, but it wasn’t enough.

I long to give you every part of me, for you to see inside my mind, to know my soul.

Unfortunately, I love you, so there are things I’ll never tell you.

I love you, so I’ll never share the part of me that would dim the light in your pretty brown eyes.