The Art of Dying

I believe I’ve mastered the art of dying

slowly chipping away pieces.

the jagged parts disconnected

the lines no longer touch,

I’ve believe that I have conquered sadness

I’ve got this one mastered too.

dwelling in darkened places

speaking words of pain.

I know I’ve become despair

on every level of who I am.

at one time or another

it has even been my name.

I’ve learned to cry myself to sleep

in the absence of any sound.

at times it’s been the only voice

that I have been able to find.

I’ve taken to singing in a mournful wail

when my heart just can’t form a smile.

again, at least the sounds come out

they are the only ones I have.

I know what it means to grieve

endlessly day after day.

to be wrapped so tightly in desolation

you flinch at another’s touch.

I know what it is when that touch never comes

and the ache that emanates from my skin.

I wear it like a garment

until it becomes who I am.

I’ve become an expert at all of these things

I’d like to learn something new.

I’d like to learn to smile

from somewhere deep inside.

I’d love to be able to laugh

without any other feeling attached.

not ‘until’ or ‘because’

but to simply feel joy.

I yearn to fall in love

with someone who truly sees me.

someone who actually hears what I say

not just who they need me to be.

I want to give my heart

openly without fear or regret.

I want to trust again

it just seems an impossible task.

I’m tired of being broken

tired of being torn.

of constantly trying to hold together

something that may never be whole.