Thursday Night

Copyright HMG

kneeling on the floor, holding my head up by my hair
my fingers clasped tightly around the redbrown wavy strands
my elbows bent at ninety degrees.
I pray to god no one hears me crying.

I’ll just be still for a little while longer
just until I can get it together enough
to breathe normally again. but everytime the air leaves me
my shoulders shake

I pinch the backs of my hands and press my face against the door
hard — thank god I don’t think to go into my room and
dig around in my dresser.
Thank god I don’t have the energy.

How many times have I gone through this? Hundreds of times I think.
Each time is exactly the same and yet I never fail to imagine that
this time I am destined
to stay down.

So, here we go.

Sometimes you re just so full
and you don’t want to cry because you’re not sad
and you’re not happy either,
so you don’t laugh.

There’s just so much, it’s overwhelming
You can t keep it swarming around inside you,
Those bits and pieces inside your body
Are dashing around, hitting the walls faster and stronger

I’m afraid that if they’re not let out,
They’ll eat away at what I can trust about myself.
They’ll change me and I won’t be able to believe in who I am anymore.
Well, that makes it sound like an illness.

It’s not. It’s vivacious, it’s painful and confusing,
and it’s reality.
My reality. My pain, my scars.
Reality isn’t an illness.

But the pain is real. Pain is guilt free. No one can ask me why,
Because there’s no way of telling them.
Oh, and the greatest would be
The sympathetic disbelief.

I could tell a sad face, a face filled with compassion,
Desire to help make it stop, love
I can hear the sighs, almost hear the grit inside
That sad head, figuring out something to say.

We all have our ways of dealing with reality.
This is mine.
I won t tell you
Because I don’t want it to stop.

I’d rather feel this pain
Than nothing at all — it’s real, and it’s mine.


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