My pulse flatlined today

waiting for 

you 

to rush in and resuscitate. 

You never did. 

 

I cried for you last night

on my bedroom floor with you

outside the door

thirty feet away. 

Wishing you’d come in and hold me. 

You never did. 

 

I could try to blame you for the broken pieces of me trailing the bottom of your shoes

 

but it’s not your fault. 

 

You are not a doctor. 

You are not a blanket. 

 

I try so hard to make you into something you aren’t. 

I try harder not to be hurt by things that shouldn’t be a surprise. 

 

I know I’m wrong. 

 

Learned to not ask myself when 

you living your life will stop making my stomach hold its breath. 

Learned to stop asking myself how 

my heart will regain its shape. 

 

Lonely is like cough syrup. 

You just gotta throw that shit back and 

know 

you’ll feel better later. 

 

I don’t fucking feel better. 

 

Trying to IV drip rationality straight into my veins. 

Not take so long to heal. 

 

But I am not a doctor. 

 

And you 

are not some minor injury. 

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