Thoughts Before Bed

An unedited poem that I felt like sharing.

Thoughts Before Bed

Sometimes I wish I could peel back

pieces of who I am. Like a snake shedding

its skin—I want to rip off all the times I ever

felt like there was nothing left, to shred the

parts of life when life didn’t feel like

it was worth living anymore. I want to pick

off each, individual tear that has ever fallen

from my eyelashes and throw every single one into a vase—

preferably one with colored flowers spilling over

the top; a reminder that good can grow from the bad.

I want to gently pour out the parts of me

that have quickly fallen in love with smaller things

like books and movies and poetry and you,
and make room for quiet laughter and first kisses, for
late night talks about what's out there for us.

I want to lift up each freckle to remember

what it felt like underneath the summer water or

how chapped my lips can get during the winter, when

snow would kiss them instead of you. Part of me

wishes everything would disappear, that I would

implode into this emptiness—that I could learn

to love and feel and thrive without all of the parts

I want to peel back.

But what would be the point in that?