i'm writing down things i don't know how to say

it has been months since i've put pen to paper and not thought of you. it's been months since i've been able to paint portraits with pencil across a paper plain. i'm having trouble forming sentences. i'm having trouble falling asleep at night. i'm having trouble.

i am writing down the things i don't know how to say.

you hit me like a freight train, suddenly, without a siren or horn. i guess that's why i haven't been able to speak, i've been lying, breathless, on my back for what seems like a long enough time for me to bleed out. i'm constantly waiting for something to happen. i wake up every morning and i always check to see if you're still here. always. i'm constantly waiting for something to happen and i'm not sure what it is.

i'm writing things that i can't verbalize.

i'm having those dreams again. i spent six months on the road last night. i crossed every border that this country has to offer me. i took a shot in every side-of-the-highway bar i could find. it still wasn't enough. nothing is ever enough. i'm getting lost on purpose. it's always dark when i get home. i'm getting lost on purpose, hoping that if i find my way home i'll also figure out what the fuck i'm doing.

i'm trying.

the last few months i've been telling myself that i'm getting better. that i'm taking tiny steps towards some better version of myself that isn't as crazy or anxious or scared or fucked up. i think i've been lying to myself. instead of getting better, i'm slowly learning that the world around me might just be getting worse. i'm not sure. then again, i'm not really sure of anything. i'm still scared and i don't know of what, who, when, or why. i'm a tall child who's still worried about the monsters under his bed.

i am writing down the things i don't know how to say.

i'm the sock that gets lost in the dryer. you'll be hung up to dry and i'll know exactly where you are but i won't know how to bridge that gap. it's only a matter of time until you get accidentally folded together with another lonesome sock. i don't know where the lost socks go, but if i did, i'd pull all of them out and try my best to re-unite them with their partners. i understand how lost socks feel.

i'm not making any sense.
i never make any goddamn sense.

i'm slamming violently on a keyboard wondering why nothing ever sounds the way i want it to. i'm frustrated. i can't stop cracking my knuckles. i can't stop chewing on hangnails. they're all nervous tics i guess. a psychiatrist told me that.

i'm nervous.

i'm worried that you'll forget about me. i'm not sure why. i go off on tangents and often fail to regain my train of thought. i'm off track. i'm worried that you'll forget about me when i forget to answer a text until three days later. i'm worried that you'll forget about me when i fall asleep when you're waking up, and vice versa. i'm worried that you'll forget about me when i'm walking just a little behind you.

i'm just worried.

when i had to write essays in high school, most of the biggest complaints i received were for my lack of a strong conclusion.