2017 was numbness and sleep-walking and trying to reach something undefined, something elusive, something almost (too) sad.
 
The months were quiet, dark, fast and expendable. There were strangers, masquerading as boyfriends, leaving cigarette ashes on my pillows. Though it didn’t always rain, the sky was mostly grey. Cloudy, dreary.
Something was always missing, but March was different. Something was taken away. Someone. I didn’t cry. But quietly I begged the moon for comfort.
 
I kept going on, even though my eyes were filled with hushed tears that I didn’t dare to cry.
With neither a map, nor a safety net, I walked through the fog, through broken days.
I lost my voice twice for days and cut my knees climbing rocks. I travelled and laughed with friends, but the weight of all the knowledge I shouldn’t had was crushing my chest.
Last day of April I got two cakes for my birthday; but I forgot to make a wish either time.
 
In June I talked about my poetry aloud. The days passed and I kept writing and going out with people who wore dark clothes and drunk whiskey. Who told me I was prettier with glazed eyes and blood-red lips.
 
In November I got to see my girlfriend again. My sweetest friend. But the last months of the year were mostly tiptoeing on broken glass, every time hoping I wouldn’t bleed. I thought I found hope, but it was only a train ticket to hell.
 
And I tried to leave it all behind. I replaced the grief with moonlight and though it hurt, like flames and silence, it didn’t matter. Because I was trying.

I tried. I’m trying.
 
Eventually I’ll be out.