and it grows, on it grows

I'm still so afraid to ask questions

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