Tell

I’ve read pages and pages and swallowed countless words of how you describe the way your mind makes you feel.

I’ve sat in silence in darkness in empty halls waiting for you to pass by

To hope for the air around you to show me how you feel ; the air you tell your poems about

The air that’s almost always filled with chemicals and magnetic fields and outstretched arms, clutching soft pillows for you to tell them stories of how happy they make you feel.

I’ve never known how you can handle a relationship like that

I’ve sat behind you, wishing I had your seat.

I want to know what it’s like to live your brain

I want to feel the energy you radiate

And I want to know how you manage to lie, to not tell, to hide, to tell, but not be heard and be fine with it.

How do you wear your sleeves so high up

like you’ve nothing to hide

I see the way your cheeks long for rivers to engulf them, I want to see rivers flow

I want to see you feel like I do

I want you to feel

I want to feel your breath carry heaviness

I want you to see me and know it’s okay to be me

I want you to roll your sleeves down

You told me once that gardens don’t die, but I’ve seen one in front of me that’s never been alive

I know what you want to say

You know what you want to say

So don’t hide behind the ugliness of what they expect you to say

Take my hand and tell me you’re not okay

I need to know if you’re okay.

For once, don’t show,

But tell.