TIRED OF MY STAINS

There have been countless heavy days, days I have been a walking tombstone, my feet too heavy to feel the ground

days I have sunk into my own body so far I needed to contact a search party to find my own voice

There wasn’t a search party available most days

I found that often times the people wearing the red capes that I thought were coming to save me were the very ones giving the enemy my whereabouts

I cannot even store in one room the amount of times I felt too big for my own bones, took up too much space, stepped on toes when I hand’t even stepped outside

I thought if I laid still for long enough people would forget

life would be lighter for them, with less of my heavy, less of my miserable, less of my I can’t do this

I have always wanted it to be lighter for them

Most days my hands shake from all the things I hold

I do not know how to be someone who heals gently

I do not know how to take the bandaids off of my heart, or where to put them if I do

I do not know how to trust a heart that hasn’t been broken 

And I do not know how to hear a voice without hearing its hundreds of echoes- sharing all the ways it really feels

There are pieces of me hidden under opinions I don’t want to hear and I’ve never dug up a time capsule that wasn’t a loaded gun

I am figuring out what it means to let go but the thing I’m best at is holding on

I feel like I’m burying things that are still alive to me, and a grave is no place for a living thing

I have never been good at keeping things on my plate and I’m beginning to think that’s why people get tired of my stains