There are buttercups in my front yard.

The damp, dark earth yields way to the rain pounding down upon it.

Those buttercups, splashes of sunny yellow peppering the deep green. Standing up to the rain that’s pouring down.

I wish I was as resilient as those buttercups as the weight of the world falls onto my shoulders once again.

The wind stirs. I’m cold.

Wish I was here.

I’ve recently found myself missing people who haven’t even left yet. In hushed moments I hear the names of my loved ones carried aloft by the wind. You’re not even gone, but I am. I’m coasting through the present, skimming these last words to get to the exciting next chapter. I’m starting to cling, to hesitate, wait, wait! But it’s quickly becoming too late. Time slips through my fingers like soft silk and suddenly, it’s gone. Now I’m gone, but so you will be too.
I miss you, I love you, I miss you.

Downward.

It’s like self destruction is inherent in her nature. She bites off another piece of bone under her own skin and spirals
d
  o
    w
      n
        w
          a
            r
              d.
You can see it in her spine.
She’s shedding pieces of herself as she walks down that wrong path, that one so beaten and worn, like the flesh of her own.
Save her! Save her!
But how does a lifeguard rescue a swimmer who was born to drown?

Denotation.

I am ashamed of the words spilling from my soul, because somehow, they’re never good enough. I sit for hours, twisting the dictionary in my mind, trying to find new ways to stitch the words together. What new combinations can I create in order to convey the feelings that my soul continues to reveal? My words are as worn as my favourite pair of pants. Tattered, frayed. Too comfortable, too safe. Not enough to bring the fire to light this immense concept in my tiny coexistence. So I continue to wring out the dead letters from this dictionary and try to resuscitate them. But who falls prey to this folly?
Aaaabbbbcccc, it is not good enough.

All’s well.

Those aches that demand my bones to be popped back into place.
I hadn’t realised how far they’d gone.
Straining against my muscles.
My skin.
Trying to make the escape of which I was too afraid.
Breaking free but not free at all,
Or broken, for that matter.
All’s well that bends well.

Growing (apart) Pains.

Sometimes my heart aches with things I don’t know. I’m doused in the bruises of life and I can’t seem to heal. The words, the looks, the faces, the earth all seem to make me shiver with what I’m missing. I miss you. I miss life. I miss the happy smiles of carefree sunshine. It hurts deep into my bones; I’m overtaken.

Lost.

When I’m at
a loss for
words, the most
perfect way
to tell you
what I think,

It feels like
I can’t quite
make my lungs
function the
correct way.
I can’t breathe.

What happens
when words are
all I have,
yet I can’t
seem to say
what I should?

I wish I
knew how to
take these words—
average words—
and turn them
into gold.

Meticulous.

I am a jealous creature.

My mind likes to argue that I’m not, that I’m rational and easygoing. Yet how could it explain that my heart still turns green when I think of what you said?

The fact that you noticed her, “she” is very cute. “But what about me?” my heart asks. “Am I cute? Do you notice ME?” I want to shout it at you, take you up to the rooftop and just yell about it. Let the whole city know. Maybe you’ll understand.

Instead, I’m dropping little hints. Little whispers. Entangling my true feelings into ambiguous words in hopes that you care enough to decipher them. Delivering well-chosen and thought-out phrases so as to make myself clear without becoming a fool. Doing all this, when all I want to do is just SAY IT. Just say it. But I can’t. I won’t. I’ll let you figure it out for yourself, while I continue to set up all the clues. I’ll let you wander, while I pine after you.

And I will remain a jealous creature.

But in the event that you choose her instead of me, don’t be surprised if you find me dressed in green, because it will be the manifestation of my envy.