1,000 pages, bright LEDs embedded into my skin, i think i'm glowing, practically glowing, 1,000 pages oh my

a thousand pages. 

literal hundreds of poems 
and thousand pages of writing

some succinct and some dragging explanations
much of it is dark and black 
like dried blood flaking off your skin in the morning when you wake 
a terrible, terrible sadness

even if i had gone
chosen to follow the path of not-a-poet not-a-writer
blank slate and run-dry pen, inkless and therefore useless, 
i dare say i would not have been happy to be taken 

and this is the forgeries of depression 
thick mental illness 
a cloud over tripping phrases tripping sunlight 
it is not a celebration of anything but the dawn of the sky 
and the colors of riotous farewell from the sun 
when the day has slowed and quickened to an adrenalized heartbeat 
the time of rest has come, though it it universally accepted that i will squander it. 

but i am here
and a week clean 
with a plan in place for recovery 

(can it be called recovery if failure is inevitable)

but not to dwell on shadows 
here i am. 

and i'm not proud of a lot of things about myself 
the way one of my eyes is slightly, ever-so-slightly higher than the other one on my face, 
my inability to remember to save things, 
the sinking hatred of my sturdy thighs 

i was built from pain and meant to survive
and i will not apologize for it 
despite the fact that i am being killed from the inside out 
a poison of the worst sort
but i am proud that i've made it this far. 

i adore the poet of myself 
with a thin, faint love 
one that wavers when the wind blows 
but much like a spider's thread
rarely snaps 

and i always repair it when it does 

because this trembling, quivering love 
is worth it - 
i don't value myself as a person, 
or my body's requirements 
like a needy pet that you don't quite want

and so this is important, 
the warm, curling like of my inner poet. 

it took a thousand pages 
for me to learn to love myself

and it will take a thousand more 
to get me farther

but damned if i'm not willing to put in the time. 

so thank you, 
to all the people i'm too socially awkward and nervous to talk to 
and those that i can't ever seem to respond to because my head is too loud 
and i can't hear anything and i can't say anything

thank you. 
for being lovely and wonderful 
and sometimes managing to be louder than the rotting hatred of myself 
grimy and decaying in my very bones

and snapping like a fish's

thank you 
because though sometimes i may not have much to say, 

i will never be silent. 

The End

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