you are not in wonderland ➵ poems

things i don't talk about

i.
My hands shake when I'm clutching a biro like a bolt of electricity has been sent surging through my body. I feel weak. I feel like anything could control me against my own accord. I've never been one to sit still and I've never known how to deal with that, deal with the trembling derived from constant anxiety like even breathing is something to be afraid of.

ii.
It feels like there isn't a bone in my body that doesn't stick out. I am composed of sharp edges and small limbs and a churning stomach that won't let me be. I wonder if everyone notices, if it's obvious I'm not healthy anymore, if anyone cares. And I know I can do better; just not now.

iii.
I think I'm more invested than her. I need her like I need oxygen, like a plant needs the sun. I am nothing without the way she smiles and laughs and her face crinkles with joy - it is my blood.

iv.
Every time I look in the mirror I pray he is broken. He is nothing more than sharp, shattered fragments of glass on the floor that will cut you, cut me. When I wake up he is my first thought: I am alone. I wonder how I function sometimes, with this emptiness in my chest like a black hole sucking the life out of me as if I am nobody.

v.
I listen and listen and listen, but won't let myself talk. I'm a scattered mess of problems: alphabetised, shelved, knocked over. Practice what you preach, they say, but words are much easier than actions, aren't they?