There's not one reason;
it's never that simple.
If I could have you understand
how many nights I've fought
to keep myself safe,
sitting outside for hours
until my bones shiver,
then curled up in bed
waiting for time to pass...
because sometimes that's
all a person can do.
I waited and waited,
grateful for each warm sunny day,
grateful for the birds keeping me company,
grateful for any moment where my lungs
felt free of debris.
I wish I could sing right now
but lyrics have left me.
It takes everything in me to
speak in more than a whisper.
I remember how often I'd
take hold of any good moment,
singing along to the radio
and dancing in my car,
my mind momentarily distracted.
But I keep circling back to this truth:
there's no way out.
There's no way out of the heaviness
unless you keep enduring it
until eventually, you collapse.
I've kept myself from collapsing
for over a decade.
I've hit rock bottom, but I always bounced back,
and I know that's what I should focus on
- my resilience -
but it hurts to carry the burden of
that kind of strength.
I'll say that I don't want to be found,
but deep down, of course I do.
I want to be held until sunrise.
I want to trust I won't be a burden.
I want the impossibility of
unconditional love and acceptance.
Because a part of me doesn't want
this path I'm moving toward.
A part of me is scared,
while a part of me is ready.
A part of me is resentful
that I can't easily override the fear.
What is safe if I'm not safe?
I can't outrun myself,
but for now, I'm hoping to.
