for the one who can’t sleep at night,
because the head is too thick with thoughts, or the fear takes up all the space in the room.
for the one who wakes up and thinks, nothing is the way i thought it was going to be and i don’t even know how it happened.
for the one who feels like they are failing, because in spite of all the hard work and the two jobs and the long hours, the missed bedtimes and birthdays and parent teacher conferences because you did not have the jobs that would let you leave or could not afford to take the time off, you still can’t seem to get ahead or get a job that would get you enough to finally fix the car, and rent is due and your tooth hurts but you don’t want to go to the dental clinic and hear the bad news.
for the one who feels alone, and feels lonely, and for the moment’s when the two collide
and the weight of it is staggering.
for the one who makes art, and shares it with the world, this great big gesture of faith and longing and conviction, and no one responds, or seems to notice.
for the one who cuts her skin, and the one wears certain clothes,
so as to hide the scars.
for the one who just quit smoking, for the one who just started smoking,
both just trying to save their own life.
for the one who was just left, and what do you do, in those first clenching moments after, when he walked out the door with the last of his things and there is so much space but you still can’t breathe.
for the one who is two days away from doing the leaving.
for the one who feels guilty all the time. for eating sugar or gluten or fat, for not finishing what you started. for not waking up on time, for consuming more than the allotted calories, for caring about calories at all, for wanting, for not wanting, for being human.
for the one who refuses to tell anyone what happened last night, for fear she will be blamed.
for the one who is waiting for the test results. and the one who just go the news, and how nothing can be the same again.
for the one who is waiting for an answer that will never come.
for the one who did everything right, made all the good choices, ate all the right things, listened to all the right things, did all the work, and you are still sick, or still alone, or still achingly unhappy. and there is nothing or no one to blame and this feels intolerable.
for the one who did everything wrong, and walked away clean, and the survivors guilt that eats you alive.
for the one who drove the car to drop them off at rehab, and the one who just walked through the front door of recovery, and the one who chose not to go and no one knows where you are now.
for the one who just saw their family crumble.
for the one who is called names, given names, not of your choosing, and you try to shake them off, but you feel forever branded, inscribed with another's words and weapons.
for the one who has things to say but feels like your voice is filled with cobwebs and cyanide.
for the one who prays, and the one who curses, and the one who wants only to quiet and clear the mind.
for the one who cannot stop counting, cannot stop repeating, cannot stop checking, cannot stop, cannot stop, cannot stop, nothing ever feeling complete,
the anxiety sometimes debilitating.
for the one who is shattered, and all the pieces that splintered out onto the floor, and the mess you make as you try to pick up and patch together shards of a life, cutting up your hands, bleeding out into everything.
for you. for the one who is breaking or has broken. is hurting or holding out. is waiting or wandering.