Were you ever real?
I ask myself this after a night of too much vodka.
I can make myself believe anything at this point.
You existed for someone else.
You were never meant for me.

could i have prevented you
from walking away?
could i have been better?
more responsive?
more agreeable?
more happy?

I just needed you to believe in me
For one moment more
For one hour more
For one lifetime more.

I tried calling out to you,
anchoring my words to
your steadfastness.
But you never answered.
[I didn't realize I was underwater.]

The heaviness has lifted
in the hours past dusk,
and I don't know how long
it will last this time,
but I will try to hold on
to some remnant of it.

This body I've been placed in
sometimes feels like I'm living in sin.
There is no immediate relief -
please give me an antidote to this grief.

I dream of sharing myself with you,
completely free - unashamed - ,
if only to feel like I can breathe,
to not choke on the heaviness of living.

And you, like so many before you, simply want to exist. To not have your identity questioned, to not have your lived experiences dismissed.

Ink is my testimony; I pour it out and watch it bubble then boil until it burns my fingertips.

"Ready for warfare?", my mind antagonizes.

"I wasn't created for battlefields", my heart insists.