Warning: This isn't a poem,
just a really lengthy piece of word vomit.
----
I'd be a fool to think February ended.
You expect I spew words of strength
and survival by now. Well, don't.
I'm still living in that night. The coffee mug
falls down the nightstand every night.
The walls in my room haven't
stopped swinging, and
my head is dizzy and I have
yet to relearn how to fall asleep
without melatonin.
I whisper in my bed that I'm scared,
that I need help, that I'm closer to
giving up than to moving on,
and saying those things even in
whispers makes me feel sane and
heard without enduring
the guilt of actually reaching out
to someone when others must have
suffered more than I did.
Do you realize how sad that is?
February is still in my nightmares.
Those 90 seconds of terror have been
on repeat for months.
My heart feels the danger when it's there
and when it's not,
when it should and when it shouldn't.
And I'm tired of being trauma-shamed,
and undeserving of support because
I still have two arms and two legs and
an intact spine, because when the building
fell down, it only crushed my mental
wellbeing, not even broke a finger.
You expect I rise from the debris,
as I usually do,
and I swear I'm trying. But this time
I want to gather the shreds of my heart
more slowly. I want to tell myself
that grief is allowed, even when others
can't see your loss.
