What is written isn't always what is meant.
Darkness might not actually be the hole of depression.
It might not actually be tailored to the person.
It might all be fiction.
But there is a bit of truth in everything.
It might sound like one path, but in reality it's a different one.
So remember that while it might be a deep end, it isn't always the one you think it is.
For example, this doesn't talk about suicidal thoughts at all, but you might interpret that differently.
That is why poetry is some a beautiful twisting road that can lead ten people through ten different journeys to ten different finishing places. That is why poetry is a knife, a hot summer, a cold winter, a sunflower in the shade, a please go away, and overall, the passion of the writer leaving it to the interpretation of the reader. Be the reader and enjoy but do not assume or jump to conclusions about the writer. Because this writer is doing just fine, which means everything may not be as it seems.
Would you miss me if I was gone?
If I ran away from it all and just said it was done?
Sometimes addiction is simply just avoidance to an extreme.
Avoiding the pain. Avoiding the loneliness.
Maybe that is why there are more types of unhealthy habits in the world than relationships.
Because neither are easy to walk away from.
But one is an escape and the other is a trap.
Which one is which?
That is the question.
What is the solution?
Learn how to be alone? But when has anyone ever successfully done that?
Sometimes this just ends in the need for a hug. For one more touch.
For one more night.
But it doesn't heal anything.
It turns the sadness and grieving into more longing.
Opening up wounds that had never truly healed in the first place.
Wounds don't heal. They scar.
There is a difference. It is never truly gone. It is simply hidden beneath layers.
We were taught that layers helped.
They never did. There was no protection against the monsters.
Sweatshirts were supposed to be a comfort, but sometimes they just serve as reminders.
Reminders that it wasn't enough, Reminders that it didn't truly matter.
There was nothing that would stop it. Crying till you ran out of the voice to.
Knowing that screaming wouldn't help. That no one could help you.
The scratching at the skin. Scrubbing to try and feel clean.
To erase. But there is never anything that helps.
So, would you miss me?
Yes, yes you would.
But you wouldn't realize it until the wind swept me away.
Until I simply disappeared.
Wondering whatever happened; wishing you could do things different.
But how would you have known? You didn't reach out.
Feeling like the one who is the protector. Constantly reaching out.
Constantly checking on everyone else.
But who is the one checking on me?
So thankful for family, but it would be nice to have those friends too.
They say it takes time. But I don't know if it falls into line with my life.
I struggle and try to cope.
But it does suck to be all alone.
Reminding myself that this is just a bad day added to a bad week.
That everything will be okay eventually.
That emotions may consume but they won't abuse.
No, leave that to the memories.
So when I say I'm running away?
It is not from the emotions. Those aren't the problem.
The problem lies within the wounds never healed.
The scars ever so kindly reminding me that I am alive.
And that this is part of who I am.
Whether it is good or bad, it is what it is.
I just simply want to say not today.
And to run away from the memories of pain.
Maybe I can make it all go away.
Let it become tomorrow's problem.
Tomorrow's tomorrow.
Which means it will forever become tomorrow.
If only.
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