Oh, My Soul

Trigger Warning: This post contains a moderate discussion of depression and a brief mention of suicidal ideation.

My soul is cold.
See, I want to rest my head on your shoulder
As if you were mine (like nothing is mine),
Because I loved hearing my mother’s heart beat—
It was evidence that she had one.
And I want to hear yours,
because I know you’re alive but sometimes I dream that you’re not.
And I want,
But Mother said that if I love too much
God has to take,
And I wanted him, like I want to be your daughter,
And he was taken, so it must be true that I am not allowed
To want.

My soul is cold.
See, I fantacized about wearing your sweatshirt
(And I’m wearing it now)
So I could be warmed by your scent and the echo
That was where you stood, God knows how many times.
But there is this thing where I am not allowed
To want,
And I think the glass fingers of my mind would hurt you
If I let them,
If I wanted.

My soul is cold.
See it’s so stupid because here I am writing poems about you
Like you’re my muse and this is the 1800s
And maybe words can change the hangnail on my heart,
But it’s like expecting one more sip of coffee
And coming up empty.
What do I know about love?
I just want something and I am not allowed
To want.

My soul is cold.
See, that’s the crux of it.
You can replace your shoes and sometimes your family
But never the broken bits in your mind.
I have replaced my shoes
And I would replace my family (with you;
Sometimes I forget you weren’t always here),
But you replace the irreplacable broken bits,
You make my heartbeat strong,
And you make my prism mind find pathways
That work.
And I want, but I am not allowed
To want.

My soul is ice.
My soul is images of tailights, receding.
My soul is a polaroid of a goodbye hug that never happened
Because I am afraid to show love.
My soul is a list of don’ts or you’ll break this,
You stupid thing with your glass fingers, you leave splinters in my eyes;
Stop wanting, needing—oh just stop being.
If you were a good girl he would have stayed and been your father
But you have a father, and you left him
And you are not allowed
To want.

My soul is melting snow.
My soul is a note to self:
“Goodbye and forever are not synonyms.”
My soul is a reminder, filed away:
“Don’t forget, my dear, you are allowed to want,
And you are allowed to hope,
And when you sometimes break,
My dear,
You are allowed
To heal.”

Love,

Ossuary