i told you once there is no feeling worse than pining. god, how it must have sounded so naive, but see: i am in a constant state of pining. strung legless in a glass box i can’t climb out of or break through, staring longingly, with bruised arms and clenched teeth, at everything i want. things i can see if i squint, but can never touch and i’ll be the first to admit that i always want too much. i want my father’s love, my mother’s smile and someone to whisper my secrets to in the dark, with my mask off, someone i could share my entire self with someone i could trust — but i am not the guy people get close to without getting hurt. i am not a summer’s day, or the sun setting in the autumn. i am both the calm before the storm, and the tempest that follows. i’m the reason hurricanes are named after people. these are things i cannot voice, words which twist their tiny fists into my throat, using all their strength to keep from being clawed out. i wonder sometimes why nobody else can hear me screaming it gets so loud it sounds like a lash of thunder, a burning house. i wish i could turn the want into hate, fantasise about a day where i can say, “i don’t need my father’s love, don’t yearn for my mother’s smile, don’t subconsciously look for you in crowded places hoping for the courage to talk to you.” because i can’t have what isn’t mine. i learned that lesson a long time ago, it’s burnt into my ribcage, every cell in my body is constantly aware of it. i need to get a fucking grip.
poems that pose as letters.
