i would like to tell you

that i died.

but i didn't.

it was worse.

don't listen to them

when they say they got better

in therapy

and that they felt better

when they found peace.

i was at peace

and i was in therapy

and i was in love,

i think,

and i was far

from okay.

the psych ward

wasn't that bad

but i didn't belong in a hospital.

i wasn't sick.

my family didn't come

and held my hand

and told me it would be okay

and smiled reassuringly.

my mother cried

she almost died

my sister didn't know what was going on

and i don't blame her.

"you wouldn't have really left me?"

she'd ask

"and what if i did?"

"i don't know"

she answered

"maybe i'd cry."

i know you wonder

about jean

and oh reader

don't get me started.

i hadn't seen him

in days

weeks

months.

and they said i was okay.

and they told me i could go home.

but the thing was-

home wasn't a place

but a feeling

and even if i felt home

in the arms of someone

who wasn't there

who probably forgot

i still

ached for home.

and so i left

after months of unnecessary care

and i went there.

t h e   f i r e   e s c a p e

in all it's glory

it still stood there

not changing.

it was warm now

and it was almost night

and there was still

that clacking of dishes

and the city lights

and the cars on the street.

i didn't think

of the fluorescent lights

of strange washrooms.

and just as i closed my eyes

there was a presence next to me.

and i didn't have to open my eyes

to see him.

"you didn't come,"

i told him.

"oh i did," he said,

"but you couldn't see."

"why?" i asked.

"why?" he repeated.

"yes," i said.

"because i came when you slept

i didn't want you to see me

and you know why?

because you're not anymore

the girl people write stories about."

"what am i?" i asked.

he leaned in closer

and for a moment- i was home.

he kissed me

his lips fully pressed to mine

and there was no fireworks

but something greater.

happiness.

he kissed me

for i don't know how long

and the chinese restaurant

was still working in full swing

and someone broke into someone's car

and the lamp above us stopped working

and i didn't remember the man

that robbed me off my childhood

or anything else

rather than the boy attached to my lips.

the world didn't stop for us

but we didn't acknowledge it either.

"what am i?" i asked after he pulled away,

and he kept whispering that he loved me

and i couldn't get enough of the bitter taste of him.

because we were drowning in our own sorrow

and we lived our lives dying

and i think i loved him.

"you're a great story without an ending."