The sun has set on the first day of January.
It's colder inside than out and soundscapes on T.V are the only thing bringing me peace anymore.
My breathing has slowed somehow, (I swear, It never does this)
and a memory flies past.
So fast, almost like I can see it. Like I'm living it again.
There's a blue feeling rushing over me
and I need to know what it is.
I close my eyes and birds start chirping.
I open them to see robins fly past me,
like the ones that flew down my street in early spring.
I'm on my way to the pool,
as they settle on the tops of trees
and whisper things only they can understand.
I'm watching intently.
Running into people on the sidewalk.
Trying to hear them.
Trying to make out what they're saying.
Trying to be clever.
Trying so hard to understand something unexplainable.
As a kid, I wanted someone to understand me.
(I still do.)
As a kid, I firmly believed robins could hear me.
(I still do.)
I had an imagination that held the key to every lock.
An imagination that could fix every problem
that came before me.
I thought the wind moved because of me,
and that I could hold my breath underwater.
I thought maybe if I could just open my eyes,
I could make a home for myself down there.
And steam dripping down my hand in the shower
meant I had some kind of water-bending power.
I tried to control things.
I tried to understand things.
I tried to be clever.
I tried to make sense out of every little thing.
I had this blue inside me.
A blue I just couldn't shake.
A blue I felt so deeply.
I sang loudly in the car and cried even louder.
As a kid, I wanted someone to hear me.
(I still do.)
Turns out being loud doesn't guarantee to hear.
I wanted to cover the world in this blue I held onto so deeply.
I'm grown now and still watch the birds closely.
I talk to them like we're old friends.
I still check-in to see if the wind is blowing because of me.
I try to unlock things
but must have misplaced all those helpful keys.
I'm blue all over and it seems
I've made a mess
all over the world that didn't love me.