i wrote an epitaph a week after being called home.

february 23, 2019 — 4:40 pm.

i think our melancholies matched with similar shades of blues and greys,

yet the hues that saturate around me seemed to defy their original idea of who i was,

or who they thought i was,

or who they wanted me to be.

their words cut deep like the knife that slid into my friend’s side,

splitting tissue after tissue,

slicing away the cells that kept these broken bones from being known by the rest of the world.

but with them, i wasn’t afraid of being exposed.

i’ve cauterized these wounds to stop any infection from spreading,

and i’ve found healing — not from being healed — but by learning to exist in the pain.

the dichotomy of healthy and unhealthy drove me crazy, so i sought freedom from insanity in the reality found —

between brews and xanax,

between stogs and lexapro,

between greens and zoloft,

between dust and prozac,

between lucy and trazodone,

between magic and adderall.

i think our melancholies matched with similar lusts for feeling alive,

but our definitions were disproportionate by the dissonance of my dissident.

i derived deception from dealing with these dichotomies before.

an underlying notion became apparent when they laid with me, and i can see why it drove them away.

as they correlate liveliness and wellness,

i’m nesting between healthy and unhealthy.

in this space is where i am me,

not sick nor cured,

only free,

to be whoever i want to be.

for there are no pressures to grow,

only to exist as we.

trees do not fret in sickness,

nor do they celebrate in health.

they plant themselves in who they are,

rooting onto confidence and consistency.

and in this existence, there is advancement.

cheers to an epitaph written a week after being called home.

i will stop by the graveyard often to remember what i’ve learned.

i’ll try not to stare at the tombstone,

for its inscription of the ending was not penned by me.

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