i said that i'm just fine

I cannot write about Death anymore 
because each moment I do 
is a moment closer 
to Death 
coming for me.

- S.H.

by a lady in black

Empty souls fill empty cathedrals and sinners begin to pray.  

The saints serenade their ears with praise, but the angels remain still.

The sinners have bruised knuckles and scorched hearts, and they don't know any better.  

They've arrived unwelcome.  

Not by God and not by the angels, but the congregation cannot tear their tandem gaze.

Sinners perspire from the fire.  

They've seen Hell and it isn't a place, it resides in the eyes of the saints.

And although light is pouring from the stain glass windows, coloring rainbows on their clammy skin, they are wishing they hadn't come.  

They are wishing they would've stayed kneeling beside their bed in the dark like they always have.

That would be less damning.

- S.H.

darling, everything's on fire

Are we talking about
fears
or insecurities?

Because I know I have a lot of the latter,
but the former seems too hard.

See, if we were talking about
insecurities
I could tell you about
my weight
that's perfectly fine,
but I'll never want to be
allowed to
donate blood.

I could tell you about the
secrets
I've hidden from the world
because I know it would
disown me if
only it
knew.

I could tell you about my
relationship
with the moon and
the sun and
how they still mean the
same things because they're
both an escape.

I don't know what fears are.

And I don't mean I'm brave because
I know I'm a coward.

I'm malleable.

I'll do anything they'll tell me,
just to fit in.
And they'll be none the wiser,
but I'll always have
my head bowed.

I know I'm a coward.

But what am I afraid of?

Obviously bees,
and I don't appreciate
hands around my neck.

But what terrifies me?

























I think I'm scared of loss.
























My experience with loss is fleeting
and I'm terrified of that meeting.























The loss of my


family


friends


mind.


I'm terrified of having
























nothing.

-S.H.

I was told to keep writing.  To never cease the movement of my hands and to let the words trickle where they may.

I was told that it's okay to write junk.

Because as long as I'm letting it out, I'm fulfilling my passion.

I was told to keep writing.  Even if I run out of things, I should just spill every thought from my mind:

This blanket is soft, and maybe a little too warm.  It belonged to my childhood bed which was bigger than the one I have now.

I've lived in every room of this house and it's strange to go back.

I am writing junk, but at least I'm saying things.

At least I'm not quiet like I used to be.

And maybe no one will read this, or somebody will and they will stay quiet.

Because this is literally junk.

But at least I'm writing.

At least this is real.

All of those beautiful things you read are revised.  They've been poked and prodded and they've been given thought.  They've been given a name.

But when you're writing from the vast space of your mind, you can't pin that down.

You can't call it beautiful or give it any title.

This is complete and utter junk.

But at least I'm writing.

And this is something I can't revise.

- S.H.

we were both young

You left and that's fine.

It's fine because you'll be back, not for a while, but you will come back.  And things will probably be different because we will be older and you will be wiser and I will always be a few steps behind.  Except, we have this unsustainable promise between us and I'm keeping it for now.

You are my brick.

I know we never said anything beautiful to each other, but at least we read each other's beautiful words.  And some of your words had to be about me.  They just had to be because if they weren't, I might not keep our promise.

You are my brick.

And maybe that's selfish.  Everything around me is changing and I'm using you to keep me sane.  I'm allowing myself to feel the escape for now because you aren't here.  But I'm telling myself that when you come back, I'm going to return to normalcy.  Maybe that's selfish.

You left and that's fine.

And I don't know why I'm giving you these words because I'm not sure if I love you.  But every time I let myself down, I let myself know that I've been waiting for you.  (Maybe that isn't how I should be doing this.)

You are my brick.

My days revolve around you writing back.  Because I want to read your words again and I want to remember them.  So it's okay that you took five months last time.  I had so much time to pound that paper into my brain.

You left and that's fine.

You are my brick and you will come back and everything will be just fine.

- S.H.