a profound loneliness
and chronic emptiness
a sinking feeling in your stomach
waiting for the drop
a heaviness in your chest
but of what?
an outline of a person
no one’s coloured in between the lines
every movement feels like effort
and is painfully slow
who do you turn to in these maddening times,
but to a face on a screen?
it’s no replacement for human contact
resisting the urge to desperately scream…
CAN ANYONE HEAR ME?
I AM ALONE
AND IF I WASN’T HERE
WOULD ANYBODY KNOW?
pour the whisky, pour the wine, I’m hollow anyway.
Things got very dark for me in the six months since I returned from living abroad.
I’m coming out the other side now.
I read back through the poems/pieces I wrote back then, and I feel like I’ve put some distance between how I was then, and how I feel now.
I’m healing. Slowly. But slow progress is still progress.
And I don’t want to delete those poems either. Because my feelings were valid at the time. And still are valid now.
But I’m doing better.
Touch wood. Because I still have OCD, don’t I?
(And for any of you wondering, love exists after heart break. And it’s even sweeter for it.)