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Trumpets sound in my ears, innocent reminders of 

no escape from myself.

My own being so foreign to me I can not

hear above them. 

And yet,

I do not know how to give in to it, so enslaved 

to the conversations in my head. 

They are only whispers amongst the chaos,

and so when a voice tells me to breathe, I almost

do not hear it. 


My exhale hurts more than my inhale,

with lungs so crowded of things 

I will never need again but

hold onto anyways. 

It is letting go that proves to be 

almost impossible. 


The longing to be loved

eats at me, a moth

to silk,

for I am unpracticed in its

art. Miserable ignorance. 

If I am only capable of

controlling the size of the hole

in clothes that used to fit, the ache in my soul, 

then let me learn, teach me the way.

I offer my surrender, I admit that I am lost.


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