Now that I’ve been stripped of belonging

and the space that I felt was safe with you,

I no longer know who I am.

I’ve been sleeping often.

Cancelling plans.

And at this rate,

I might not have friends anymore.

Most importantly,

I haven’t been to a jazz show in a while.

That’s when I knew,

I am not okay.

It took me a long time

to finally write again.

To pen these words

and let them exist.

Ignoring them means

I don’t get to feel for a while.

But I’ve noticed how they come out in other ways

and hurt people who were never there to begin with.

I’m so tired.

Tired of existing.

Staying awake.

And recently,

even eating is a lot of a task.

Work, however?

I could do it in my sleep.

Everything else?

Is falling apart

right in front of me.

And I don’t have the will

to do anything about it.

Will she ever finish building that house?

Will I ever get to live outside of it?

The healthy place.

The in-between.

The space where the fragments

form a whole picture?

And if she does,

do I become finished,

too?