I don’t have time to plagiarize what’s going on in the minds
of every heartbroken teenager writing poems every evening
starting their first line with “It’s 3.am.”
Because the most human things I ever do
happen around noon and I want you to feel it too.
Yes sometimes I’m wide awake thinking at 5:46
all the hurtful words you said and
how they tick, tick, tick, tick, tick boom there are 32 other people
in this room but it feels like the spotlights on me.
It feels like a righteous auctioneer is trying to sell my heartbeat.
The price is going up, class ends in 14 minutes
but anxiety doesn’t give a fuck that you kissed her.
It was months ago, I tell myself with resistance.
Obsessive thoughts and panic attacks— what a symptom for a brain
that’s always running late, like the first train
and you miss your transfer every time.
That’s whats going on in my mind.
Yes, at 3 a.m I’m still broken in the heart
but see the pills have had their start and sweetie,
I sleep fine.
I don’t need to insert a romanticized time
of the night because the majority of my hell happens whenever
i feel the relentless plight that pushes back at me when I think I’ve hit the ground.
Its noon in my composition class and at this point
i’m pretty sure my heartbeat is making a sound
you wouldn’t need a stethoscope to hear.
I’m pretty sure it’s got a voice,
control of the voice inside my head saying
"Sara you’ve got a choice:
if you run out of class now you can lay in bed, and cry.
Or you can look your professor in the eye with the words
"I’m here, I’m here, I’m here,"
until it shoots down your spine and you realize,
Realize, I am.
I am more than anxiety.
I am more than an image of broken glass
in an acoustic song album cover
written by some ass
who didn’t really love her but is collecting the cash saying he did.
I am what you are, and we are not broken glass.
We are a bulletproof vest, and yes sometimes the world gets the best of us but we were made to handle it.
Do you hear me?
You are a daisy.
The water dumps weight on you for far too long
but you’ll with thrive with its subliminal nutrients
and grow healthy and strong, I swear.
And it’s noon. It’s noon and i’ve stopped myself mid-panic.
I’m a heartbroken anxious fella, and I have had it.
I am not my anxiety, and i’ve not loved and lost.
It is not always 3.am and I am not looking at the frost on a window pane.
No the snowflakes do not remind me of your name,
despite what poets want you to believe.
They are not all that we are, and I’m so tired of reading
It’s 3 am it’s 3 am repeating
in our lives.
Yet in those quaint relatable poems
there is something to adore-
And so I must let you know, it is 4:04
in the morning.