Ill never admit I'm not okay.
Not to a public forum.
I would say words of encouragement
To those in a similar predicament
But I believe some things are private
And remain so.

My pain is mine to which I see fit exposure.
It is a stupid burden on my life
And I resent the existence of such
An utter waste of energy and youth.
I am outraged!

I want to see the colors again.
I want to wake up and see light in my flesh and pink in my cheeks.
I want the trees to have that hint of yellow making each leaf it's own exotic treat.

I want my heart to be full and sweet.
Full of excitement and breath.
In awe of the small dumb shit
In love with disease
Literally. I miss that shit.

Pathogenicity. They have the word.
My love. My morbid link to the world.
The affliction of petty amounts of matter
Take down kings and urchins alike.
And it's normal. It's accepted.
Feared, they have volumes about the disorders caused by germiphobia.
But it is life. It is true agony.
For it is not just the physical pain,
But the gut wrenching knowledge that you have no real control for you can't see your enemy
It eats you whole.

Tangents aside. I'm getting sick
Of being sick.
Like its pathetic. It is dumb.
I am Sara. That is a real thing.
I am great.
Call down my mind from above
Set me on earth
So I can get my shit done.

I sat an observer: never to participate, but diligent in taking notes on what to mimic later.

Notes on being human.

I want see the sun rise from every place
 to cement that we are momentary.

I want to see the moon fall from its bed
 to break our shuffle, and send us falling with it.

I want to crack open every book
 and read all of us, in one sitting.

I want to spill out every fiber of my being
 into life, until no more can trickle out, and I'm finally wilted.

I want the last thing I see to be my face, well worn and warm.
 I want to know that I was born, and I died knowing that I was great.

And I told you twice,
don't put your hands on me
like that. like that.

When you come, I fall in love just a little. And when you eventually leave, whether for your own reasons or because I am so very logical, my heart breaks just a little.

They say I'm ice, heartless. On the contrary, my heart is so full and willing that I silence its pounding screams if only to save it later. There is a difference. Had any of you ever seen this, you'd still be here.

Then again, logic is logic, and I'm sure you had your reasons.

The most dangerous flower is tandem beautiful
and even when it's eating you
you can look into its eyes for a quick whisper
that it's going to be okay.

It's unlikely that I'll see you eye to eye
or bother avoiding delicacies.
you're too sweet, you see.
you're too sweet, and you're perfect for me.
And I wanted to be devastated.
I want to feel numb and cross.

I want to live in a crawlspace of life
because as much as there is a soul for everyone
mine has died. he has died.

he has died in my arms, and I crushed his corpse
to dust, for me to shove into my eyes
and gather the semblance of irrational vulnerability.
Because to be frank, I feel nearly nothing.

My mind is vacant, as my eyes, as my heart.

Do you regret? I regret some stuff.
Not a lot. Not so much to fill a book.
But enough to fill a sentence.

I regret living in my head.

To disconnect from my head would be bliss.
To reconnect with earth would be bliss.

I called you a king.
Draped you in waking robes
and kissed your feet with misery,
I called you a king.

And you are that,
and I regret
rebelling.