Sorry I Haven't Texted You Back

by Alicia Cook

You tell me I have “nothing to be sad about.” I agree and you meet me with a shrug; and I knew you didn’t get it.

No one knows how much she cried last Wednesday because she was quiet about it, and to some, pain is only noticed when it is public, and loud, and obvious. No one knows how much she cried last Wednesday because Thursday was better and, by then, she didn’t want to dwell on yesterday.

We were too busy chasing survival that we didn’t even consider that the acts of surviving and restoring would hurt too.

We were too busy picking up broken glass that we normalized our trauma, started to liken the gathering of shards to collecting shells along the shore, or inspecting snowflakes; each one unique in its sharpness, in its deadliness.

I don’t look like a girl who has nothing to lose but I feel like one—I’ve come undone.

I have scrapes on these knees from praying too hard, and scrapes on my heart from staying too long.

I’m only human, running on fumes and sobbing at red lights. I’m only human, paying my dues and losing my might. I’m only human, lying to myself saying I’m all right.

You’re not good today, and you’re good with that. You understand your mind and your body; you know even though you’re down, you’re not down for the count. You breathe in and out. You will not let today obstruct the potential in tomorrow.

Sometimes time, try as it might, can’t keep its word and doesn’t heal you from what occurred. When they ask me how long you’ve been dead, you die in my head all over again.

The gusts from the storms of our saga blew scraps of you into my face. You were in photos, in text messages, in strangers, in song lyrics, in certain smells, in clothes of mine I knew you loved.

It happens suddenly. I could be fine for days, weeks, months. Until I am not. Reminiscences and tears are bees that sting. Suddenly. Quickly. Maybe not even on purpose.

Today, I took a sip of cucumber water but tasted my past and was reminded that you don’t have to deliberately pick at a scab for it to bleed.

How do I silence my mind like I silence my phone? Heavy lies this crown; I want to be dethroned.

You never loved me, but your heart broke just the same the day I stopped loving you and began to love myself.

But I AM RUNNING OUT OF METAPHORS TO MAKE HOW SHITTY I FEEL more digestible, quotable, poetic.

My overthinking is only romantic when it is described as a wanderlust mind that spans galaxies; not when I call it what it is, obsessive and intrusive.

They still try though, to take the literal out of context. To make pain more digestible, quotable, poetic. Pretty, even. It’s none of those things.

Currently listening to: “Rainbow” by Kacey Musgraves

You’re not going to be on time, but you will be there. You are going to be late. Again. You are going to blame the traffic, not your anxiety. Again.

Sometimes it feels like the cards I’ve been dealt were shuffled by the Devil himself. I can read his tell.

I don’t go to church anymore unless someone is baptized, married, or dead; but I still bless myself whenever I am about to run a red and keep the palm cross tucked in my car above my head.

Have you seen my faith? It seems to have been misplaced somewhere beyond the saints, and snakes, and apples, and gardens. Forgive me, Father, or don’t, I’m not really looking for a pardon.

It’s only when you’re in a room filled with people not wired in such a way that you realize how close you are to short- circuiting. You are fried. Burned out. Praying for a factory reset you know won’t come.

you said that you were busy, not broken.

I’m sorry if I “seemed better” on Monday; I promise I’ll be “better” by Wednesday. I’m sorry I’m not the person you fell in love with; I promise we’ll get back there. I’m sorry you miss the person I once was; I promise I miss that person too.

and maybe I don’t want to be the strong one.

Momentarily, I’m a golden-winged warbler, with crisis sonar warning me to soar away before shit hits the fan.

You gave me the best gift. You left.

It’s being tired all day, then your head hits the pillow, and you’re awake. It’s wanting to make plans. It’s wanting to return that text. It’s wanting to call someone. It’s wanting to be how everyone expects you to be. It’s that nagging on the tip-of-your-tongue feeling, but you just can’t find the words so you feel defective. And it’s all of that happening in just one day.

You’re hurting? Tell me. You’re worried? Tell me. Because it’s nice and human to have these things in common.

You may be a “stranger” now, but your mouth has covered every inch of my body and I still recognize your deodorant on the person in front of me at the bank and I hear your belly laugh rattle through my entire being when something supremely funny happens. I loved you too much. Being strangers isn’t enough distance for me. I can’t unmeet you. Let’s call this what this is—you’re more of a ghost than a stranger.

My brain is delicate and bruised / Not a bomb that needs to be defused.

Everything is so loud in this black hole and voids aren’t supposed to make noise. So what the fuck is this?

because time is nothing but a universal joke.

I chose to survive though. I chose to welcome happiness with open arms when it would momentarily shine through, like sunlight through curtains. I chose coping skills and scary conversations and recovery.

If I am being honest, I knew you weren’t the one a few weeks in when you bit directly into a string cheese.

I used to think a lot of things, until I began to live and learn and know.

There was just me and the echo of my footsteps, walking around a house that didn’t feel like home anymore.

Now, the monster under my bed falls asleep before I do.

There are no longer vultures circling my sky. I have not been the prey in quite some time.

You let others cry, vent, scream. All the while, your pain was bubbling to the surface and there’d be this screeching-teapot ringing in your ears. You would pull into a CVS parking lot or run the shower and cry in secret. You’d scream internally or into a pillow. Then answer your phone like you hadn’t been up for two days straight. Not because others expected you to never have your own breakdowns. But because you sincerely thought if they saw you crumble, they would crumble even more and you didn’t want that for them.

You wanted them to get better. So, you stayed quiet. And let it destroy you from the inside, out.

We are in repair, never beyond repair. We are healing, never healed.

Easy to question your sanity when your art stems from tragedy.

-I WOKE UP TIRED- Even in a dreamworld, your bullshit exhausts me. Even in a dreamworld, you can’t show up for me. Even in a dreamworld, we would never work out. The nightmare is no longer perpetual, though. -I GET TO WAKE UP-

We live in a world where when I ask a ten-year-old what he wants to be when he grows up, instead of saying an astronaut or firefighter or president, he just replies, “Here. I still want to be here when I grow up.” And I know by here he means alive. And I wonder when understanding the fragility of one’s mortality was lumped in with teaching fractions and cursive and the state capitals.

I sometimes throw away the notion that there are pieces of me worth salvaging.

What matters is you cried tears, knowing that you wouldn’t drown. What matters is you believed others when they told you that you mattered. What matters is you kept believing you mattered too.

I know you need me to need you. Visibly. Obviously. Irrevocably. But I’ve lived without things I’ve needed to live for such a long time. My ability to mend after something ends is uncanny.