May is where flowers bloom,

And the wind drifts to its own tune,

And so drifts the moon.

May is peaceful to those untouched by gloom.

Perhaps May brings solitude,

But at what cost?

No one to exemplify gratitude,

And perhaps that is already lost.

But never say such,

Of what they call melodramatic.

Does it hurt to feel by touch?

Is it selfish to feel charismatic?

Perhaps May carries melancholy

To those whose peace comes at a price.

And maybe peaceful months never exist,

But months, nonetheless, persist.

Just as May never waits for you,

And whatever it brings lingers like glue.

Yesterday, I talked to my therapist.

We finally broke through the surface

Of how I never got over this.

You think that’d I be used to this

By now,

Sitting on couches

With strangers,

Always feeling like my life is in danger.

Some of my blood don’t believe me,

‘Cause all you do is make up stories.

You’re the definition of gaslight:

Telling a child she does nothing right,

Then claiming to be a mother.

That’s not a birth right.

When you see love, you claim possession.