(sometimes i wonder if he was my soulmate)

i once took a boy on a tour who made my anxiety go away. i don’t know who he was or why he made me feel that way but he reminded me of hunk from voltron and that guy from lilo and stitch and for some reason just being near him made me feel so goddamn happy. it’s so cliche but i felt like a weight had been lifted from me, like the ice-cold shuddery pool of adrenaline and fear that i constantly subconsciously reached out for was just- gone. it was the calmest 35 minutes of my life so far.

that was last summer when i was really bad off, what with sam and the intrusive thoughts and the constant terrifying gnawing of wondering if you’re something bad so it was such a relief to just be able to not feel afraid for half an hour. and i wonder constantly if that’s the only time i’m ever going to feel that, the one and only time in my life when i’ll ever just be happy and i fucking missed it because i was just a tour guide who probably stared too long and looked too happy to see him. it scares me mostly because i could have gone my whole life without the knowledge that there was ever a state of mind that didn’t have terror lurking on it’s edges and i might even have been happier.

but by some trick of the universe i took a boy on a tour once who made my anxiety go away, and now i know that i’m not happy and i might have missed my only chance to be.


not a person

​i get it now. i do.
what you want is not a person.
what you want is a receptacle
for all your stories and feelings and philosphies;
you want something that will nod and smile
and make noises in all the right places.
you don’t want a person,
but you think you do.

and that’s where i came in.
i’m quiet enough to be a receptacle-
i am the container you pour your thoughts into,
and now you’re not comfortable with thinking of me
as anything other than a container.
see, the instant i didn’t just allow you to walk all over me,
said no, i’m not comfortable with that,
you dropped me like i was trash.
that is not how you treat a person.
that is how you treat a broken container.

the problem is, i am a person.
i’m not a receptacle, and
what we had was not a relationship.
i know that now.

on letting go

i am good at letting go.
it feels like i was made for it, sometimes;
my fingers uncurl too easily,
ties fading gently
into nothing.
it is a willing descent,
letting people slip
through my fingers.
i am comforted by the thought that
i’m (probably) better off
without them
and they’re (definitely) better off
without me.

it feels as if nienna was born already mourning, from the instant she took up her song. even when she did not know of what she sang, she sang sadness and pity and grief, an endless stream of tears for something that did not yet exist.

it is only when she settles into valinor, watches yavanna sing into existence the trees and flowers and animals, that she realizes what she mourns for. so she stays with yavanna under the light of her trees for a long while, learning everything of the world she has to teach, simultaneously mourning less and more for the knowledge of how wonderful life can be.

but eventually she tires of yavanna, who does not understand why she grieves and who tires in turn of trying to, and so she leaves the trees. she goes to the gardens, where estë and her spouse offer her a soft seat of moss and a silent comfort.

rest, estë says, and nienna tells her of all the terrible things she sees, all of the pain and death she cries for. estë does not try to stop her mourning, merely waits and listens until nienna finally runs out of things to say. i understand, estë says, and though the pain of the world is yet unceasing, let yourself be soothed.

nienna lets herself rest, lays her head on estë’s bosom, and when estë retires for the day, she follows her and offers herself. take my pain, she says, and make it beautiful for a while. estë smiles, and tucks a strand of hair behind nienna’s ear, and leans in.

nienna learned beauty from yavanna, but it is from estë that she learns peace.


sometimes i feel like a gravedigger,
digging my own grave in preparation for the day
when i finally get to rest.
every day another shovelful of dirt,
every achievement an acquiescence to the idea
that there are minimum requirements for death.

before i can lay down, i have to dig my own grave.
i’m tired of digging, but it isn’t deep enough,
isn’t wide enough, the edges aren’t sharp enough
and the terrible vicious irony of it is
that i only tire because i’m digging.
if i could just lay my shovel down,
i wouldn’t need a grave at all.