Sometimes Goodbye Doesn't Have to Last

The flower you hold so delicately
has thorns on its stem as it is not so fragile.
The way you caress the satin petals
is as though it will fall through your fingers like sand.
The same fingers that pulls through your hair
as a habit.
But the moment will come when the petals will wilt
and the thorns will grow weak.
And your hands will drop
this limp plant
and it will lay by your feet,
fallen.
But memories last
and the silk that you felt
will linger
hesitantly.

The flower you held so closely
with the thorns that broke your skin
will always reside withing you.
You'll brush your hair
with the same gentleness
that stroked those simple petals.
But there will be another.
With more vibrant colours.
Striking petals.
A stem with less thorns.
A stem without a weight on its shoulders.

But maybe the goodbye to the flower with an ethereal glow
Is not a different greeting other than that of 'Hello'.

To My Mother

I don't know when I started to see you hurting so much.
I remember when I was younger, I would be downstairs with your best friend's daughters, and I don't remember you sitting with us.
I don't remember you coming downstairs smiling, in a soft t-shirt with a nice pair of jeans, nor do I remember you wanting to go out much.
But I remember your door being closed a lot, and when you'd come out you'd try to smile and pull my head to your lips.
I remember how you used to make me and my brother that hamburger helper almost every night because you couldn't cook.
I remember you gaining weight, then suddenly losing all of it.
I remember feeling the waves of sadness that you radiated, even though you would wear that red lipstick to emphasize your smiles.
But I didn't realize when I was younger that you were sad.
I was used to coming home to a babysitter, or staying at a friend's house.
I was used to not seeing you very often.
It felt normal.
And I wasn't mad at you for it.
When people asked me what was going on with my mum I would say
"She's sleepy, is all."
Or
"She's had a long few days."
But they weren't a few days.
They were years.
Mum, you've suffered for years.
And I didn't know when I was younger that you were depressed.
I didn't know until recently that you were sick.
I didn't know that it took you the majority of your living life to get the help you deserved.
And I am so, incredibly, terribly sorry that my younger self couldn't see.
I am so, incredibly sorry that even now I can't help you very much because we're trying to push each other up when we end up pushing each other down.
And I am so, terribly sorry that I make you worry.
I just--
God.
I just, I care so much that my heart hurts.
And I care so much that I can't not cry while I'm trying to explain what I've been wanting to say.

I remember,
when I was around fourteen or fifteen, when you told me about how depressed you got.
How you wanted to hang yourself.
But you couldn't because you know I would be the one to find you there, lifeless.
And you knew that would shatter me.

I remember,
when I told you about what happened
very recently,
and the fact that I had been living with the information for four-five years
and you began crying.

I remember so much, mum.
I am so sorry for so much.

And I 'm sorry for when I get such low energy, and such a low mood, that the few times we see each other,
I'm not really there.
It isn't you, mum.
It's my head.
It's my emotions.
It's the pressure in my chest.
That I've placed on myself.
That I inadvertently placed on myself.

I just need to say that I love you.
I love dad too... but I can't talk about him now.
Just like I can't talk about my brother.

Because we keep bruising each other,
whereas whenever my mood gets low around them,
it's like they're wearing a bullet proof vest, allowing my bullets to ricochet.
Our bullets don't ricochet.

"JUST ONE OF THOSE DAYS"

I don't know about you, but I hate these days.

When you feel disconnected from everyone

 and you can't focus properly. 

It's days like today where I feel the most vulnerable. 

As though my mind drags me down into my sorrows

 and buries me in the ice of my thoughts.

I don't like this because I want to feel better. 

And days where I can't function properly don't help. 

It's the day where you want to sing how you feel

through the depths of the sea

and open up a paint jar

while snuggled up with mouth biting tea

and you feel so torn

broken

and beat

that nothing feels right.

but you realize the difference.

the sensation of 'why?'

because of the heart

that draws everyone together

is severing my thoughts

and making us wither

but it's okay.

it's just one of those days.

-e.w