How to cure lonely.

But isn’t that just the thing? There’s no cure for this pit of indescribable loneliness inside of you. Sure, I’m about to try and you got it, procrastinating again. Right now, I’m sat in the library, been here two hours and all I’ve managed so far is how to secretly and quietly eat my sandwich. It’s Sunday. I’ve been at work all day; I’m tired. I’m not sure how long I’ve noticed the loneliness but lately it creeps up on me more and more. How’s that for oxymoronic?

Lonely isn’t something someone should be used to. It’s an introvert’s dream, right? To be alone? Wrong. There’s that kind of alone, where you actually want to be alone and the kind of alone I’ve been feeling for so long where you just wish you wasn’t so alone all the time. I do talk to people. Technically, half the time, I’m paid to talk to people. But, that’s different. That’s not forming a connection with someone, that’s work. Lonely is the fight inside me dying. It’s the years I was told to shut up and stand in the corner, growing accustomed to a phone that never rings, never goes off, never thinks about the girl on the other end. It’s the time I’ve spent watching my friends go out without me because they forgot I was alive or the other times when someone says they’re busy and yet you see their evening out on Snapchat. God, I fucking hate social media. It only heightens the lonely. The wall that you’re there and I’m here and we’re swimming, except we’re not. You’re floating. I’m sinking.

Once in a while there’s a glimmer. A spark of ‘omg someone’s talking to me,’ the rare ‘they like me’ the ‘oh I made someone smile today’ but it never lasts. I’m not saying I’d love to be hanging out with people I loved all the time, though in that regard there’s not a lot so might be nice, but sometimes, just some, I’d love to not be here feeling like I didn’t want to be.

Lonely is doing a three year degree and having no support, no safe system, no safety net. It’s friends who lie and family who only tell you their proud of you once intoxicated. What kind of joke is this? I can count on one hand how many people have told me to reach for the stars, they see my potential, they know how good I can be at something. Not one of those people share the same blood as me. Not one of those people have dated me, or even known me longer than two years. Okay, bar one, whose been on my side from day one. Hey, eyebrows, if you’re reading. And Hannah. You guys have always been there. Well, tried too, I suppose.

I’m not sure there is a cure for loneliness. I was told once we’re all lonely, we’re all searching to be happy. I can vaguely tell you when I was last happy but I’m not sure where to look anymore. My peepholes only have sadness or a lingering feeling of ‘you’re not enough.’ Lonely is trying to talk to people but it feels like you’re reaching out for the stars and your lifeline is cut short the second you leave Earth and you’re all alone and falling, tripping, collapsing, slapping the ground face first.

I’m trying to fill my lonely with words. But even that occasionally isolates me. I’m not in that bubble. I’m the world where it burst. Where this is reality and for now, for a while longer, I’ve just got to get used to the lonely. After all, I don’t know how to feel anything else.

Stranger Street.

I’m used to being stared at.

I’m not beautiful,

I just have a crazy fashion sense.

That colour

And that one

Don’t exactly match.

But, then,

I never felt right

In ‘normal’ clothes

Anyway.

Maybe that’s rooted

Somewhere

In my whacked-up DNA.

But. That’s for another day.

Please, go ahead.

Stare.

I’ve been told this ‘look’ suits me.

Bet you couldn’t pull it off.

Shall we see?

 

 

Sleeeep.

Sleep is reigned

by toddlers and old people.

The former don’t even appreciate it,

and the latter doze off during TV ads.

I slept for four hours the other day,

then for what felt like six minutes,

then for a full thirteen hours

after I pulled an all-nighter.

I don’t remember dreaming,

Though I mostly dream in the Awake hours,

I’m not expecting a fairytale,

I’d just like someone to talk to.

Confide in,

stay up with me.

Fight this insomnia,

who knows,

some day

maybe we’ll get our crowns back.

Claim sleep for our own.

I Thought…

I thought

a lot of of my words

were aimed at one person.

I thought

he deserved

the pain I felt.

I thought

that was okay,

but I’m not that person.

I thought

I was alone

and yet there’s so many people.

I thought

why am I crying?

When you’ve got dry eyes.

I thought

i knew heartbreak

until you did it again.

I thought

this was aimed at you,

but this is for me,

all the words

you never let me say.

Afternoon sunshine.

It’s a little weird,

but this introvert,

is beginning to miss you.

Usually I’m sat like I am now,

laptop in tow, notes to the side

and you’re jailed outside.

We’re serving two different life sentences.

Mine is about grades,

yours is about growth.

Aren’t they the same?

I watch you, day-by-day

appear and disappear like the time

has over three years.

I’ll graduate soon.

Will I see you then?

I yearn for the river and books by fields,

nature highlighted with your rays,

blonde in my hair,

perfect blue sky.

I’m stuck on this assignment.

I’m scared I’ll fail.

That I’ll plummet into darkness and never see you again.

I wish I was a plant.

No, flower.

Pluck me and let me burst with colour.

For now I’m confined

to these words that are supposed to make me seem smart

when I’m not.

I’ll sit here for the time being,

watching you from the window.

Let’s catch up soon?

Afternoon sunshine!

 

It’s 3.41am. I’m Writing My Last Ever English Literature Assignment.

I’m writing an essay

on culture and a sense of belonging.

It’s 3.41am.

I’m on my second all-nighter of the week.

I don’t think I like English Literature.

No, wait, I really don’t like English Literature.

I’m thankful for the posh words,

and how I now know how to say ‘bourgeoisie’

which is also fun to spell…

but I prefer the word ‘ambidexterity’

and putting my thoughts

into poems not essays.

I’m not smart at this academic stuff.

I was smart on you.

I will be smart on you.

The former and latter people I’ll someday love.

I can’t sleep.

Words on this

aren’t even polished.

I’m not even a third in.

Maybe that’s what my grade will be.

This was supposed to be a love poem.

But I don’t know you yet

and my veins are pumped

with a can of Monster.

It’s a long night ahead.

So, please,

if you’re out there…

Let me burrow into your chest.

I’ll live there a little while.

You smell like home.

Reflections I found on love…

Sometimes I think

Humans are fucking terrible at love.

No, not think. Know.

Give somebody love and they’ll

Crush it. Hearts like glass

Splintered into a thousand pieces.

It’s too much to sweep up,

Too quiet to hoover.

My heart’s patched with glue.

The stickiness is drying,

I don’t think the shop has any more.

Maybe if someone had handled it

Properly

It’d be whole again,

Almost complete

For somebody else.

But instead

We’re fucking terrible

And I’m treading on shards,

Cutting, slicing, tearing skin

At the love I left behind.