at a poetry reading in Seattle, she spoke of crayons
and 864 miles away from home, I could still feel remnants of Paris stuck on my skin
smell the scent of history finding its way back to me
in the crowded space of people, who listened to what was being said aloud but kept missing the silent in-betweens
I felt it again
I felt like dying
powerless panic
unexplainable misery
I wanted to hurt myself
I was scared I'd hurt someone else if I didn't get the hell out of there
and I was still breathing
but I want you to know that in that moment I knew what suffocation was
and I don't understand it
please tell me why it hits me in unexpected places like that night
at times when there's nothing wrong
all of my journals since the beginning have had gaps of days, months, years
where I didn't write a single thing
I never lived and breathed in poetry
I inhale and exhale just because
I lurk and I linger
never trusting the words I write completely
because I don't know if that's what I mean
ready to run from them more than once in a while
but poetry's always there
I see it everywhere
in the footprints in the snow
in the veins on her hand
in the crinkles in his eyes when he talks about tomorrow
in their body language when they're a room apart
in his laugh that screams life
in the tragedy that lasts three seconds on the news
in the injustice that perception feeds
but I'm missing the unbearable sights
I don't take the time to look
I'm impatient again
I'm at a place in life I couldn't imagine I could be a year ago
but going back to the person I was when I was not okay
I'm okay now though
I think
and I need someone to tell me why I'm going backwards when okay doesn't mean not okay
but I'm still so afraid to ask questions
