sick of sitting around.

two weeks in of loving me, you’ll tell me to stop apologizing. i’ll stumble out another “i’m sorry,” before i try to stop. you’ll sweep the floor in our apartment, strands of brown hair will be found in a mess of crumbs, and god knows what else. i’ll wince and you’ll say it’s fine before my tongue makes the move. when i’m sad i’ll sit and stare out the window. before we go to bed, i’ll slip you a side of i’m sorry’s with your nightly tea. on the walk home the man jogging past me slams into my shoulder, his fault, not mine. but i’m still convinced my clumsy feet took me towards him. i’ll turn around to whisper an “excuse me, i’m,” - to see it’s too late. when the saleswoman mumbles out the total, i’ll say, “sorry, what was that?” like it’s my fault her mouth wouldn’t move along with the words she’s spitting out. when someone comes over unexpectedly, i’ll run my fingers through my hair and straighten out my shirt. “i look horrible, sorry.” i mean, how dare i lay at home in sweatpants and no makeup. you’d think i’m sorry were my first two words as an infant. you’d think i’m sorry was just a phrase that’s lost meaning to me now. but it hasn’t. every time i say, i’m sorry, i’m not just apologizing for what i did, or didn’t do. i’m apologizing for my existence. i guess, that’s what i do. i exist and i beg to be forgiven. i’m a problem, a mistake, in the way, always too late, need an excuse, a burden, an annoyance, i fucked up. I’M A FUCK UP. hey, sorry for cussing, i’m just upset.

“Mom, why do the best people die?” “When you’re in a garden, which flowers do you pick?” “The most beautiful ones.”

I.) I should stop wearing my bad habits like rings. II.) You said you “loved me to the moon and back” when the moon wasn’t even out that night. III.) When I played “Eeny, meeny, miny, moe,” to choose between you and myself, I cheated. IV.) You had a mouthful of forever’s and eyes that literally screamed “Maybe!” V.) You’ll probably forget my name in a years time, and I’ll say yours in my sleep for the rest of my life. VI.) I should have broken my legs instead of letting you break my heart. VII.) You seemed more like a God than a 15 year old boy. VIII.) Citric Acid is purer than you. IX.) Guilt was a terrible color on you. X.) You told me to stop chasing ghosts when you were half way gone.

Listen. Listen to me. You are so lucky. So, so lucky to be alive. Even in these moments where it feels like everyone is clawing at your chest, trying to rip out the heart you’re not even sure you have anymore. Even when your eyes are too dry and overworked to notice the simple beauty of clouds. The sun. Plants. Even when your legs are weak and your thoughts are foggy and you’re too stressed to take deep, deep breaths, I want you to breathe. I need you to breathe. Because in these moments you are lucky to be alive. I need you to listen to me. I need you to believe this.

his white shirts and his wild hair make you think of rumpled sheets and late nights and sloppy kisses and he has a grip that’s firm but careless, because he loves you, but not “Till death do us part” he has sleepy eyes and a mouth stuffed with careful words to the point where he’s choking but it doesn’t matter because he’s half asleep, just floating through life, while you’re hunched over trying to carry all his responsibilities  but he knows how to whisper bitter words to you that sound like a verse from Shakespeare’s lost play about a girl falling for a boy who had the moon in his eyes and the weight of Earth on his shoulders

I am just sixteen and you smelled like the outdoors and I hadn’t left my room in a week. I tell you about how my mother made me come to this little boardwalk between 6th and 7th street because she thought I was missing out on the “teenage experience”. You ask me why I’m wearing three jackets in the middle of June and I tell you to mind your own business but then I quickly apologize because I remember that my therapist told me if I want to make friends I have to be polite. You tell me your name but when I get home I can’t remember it because the side effects of those four little blue pills make my memory fuzzy. I decide to nickname you “That boy” Your grandmother left you her old car in her will and when I ask if you miss her you tell me you don’t even remember her. Sometimes you glance at me for a second too long and I get nervous because it only takes half a second to crash into the car in front of us. Maybe that’s what I would have wanted a couple of months ago but lately I've been wearing sundresses and humming along to pop tunes and eating caramel apples. My mother says she caught me smiling and I ask her for proof because I haven’t smiled in years. I met this girl who falls under the Courtney, Brittany, Heather aesthetic and she says I have good cheek bones. She teaches me how to apply blush and lipstick and invites me to parties. We had a date on the boardwalk and I keep looking over my shoulder because there’s a dark cloud following us around and for once it isn’t mine. Your eyes get darker each day and I keep telling myself it’s just the weather but we both know better. You say you don’t like my new clothes or the glitter on my lips and you miss my trail of tears. I ask you why you’re wearing three jackets in the middle of June and you tell me to mind my own business and you don’t apologize. I think I saw it coming but that doesn’t mean I was ready. I miss you like someone would miss a failed kidney. I can’t help thinking that your tombstone should have the words “That boy” engraved on it instead of “Beloved son, brother, and friend”. I visit you every year and I rub the glitter off my face and put on three jackets even though it’s the middle of June. I take four little blue pills and I finally have the courage to say your name and I say it three hundred and sixty five times, once for every day I didn’t.