ode to a blank page

trigger warning: depression-ish, anxiety, fairly graphic mentions of self-harm

note: hello internet humanoid beings! if you want any of my poems made into a spoken word recording, please leave me a comment! and i will consider your suggestions! 🙂


blinking cursor. an endless expanse of white, that will make itself bigger and bigger, making a nest around my heart and folding the broken pieces together. cut and paste collages of memories. airs and graces, slipping way, because through all the darkness and bad memories, through the purple skies that kissed me goodnight and  promised me hope and positivity. i have this tendency, to oscillate between sad and happy, year after year, my self-control crumbling and rebuilding, crumbling and rebuilding. i am a yo-yo, slipping up and down, up and down, between euphoria and what i don’t know what to call so i’ll call the grey room in my head i’ve spent many nights sleeping in depression. depression, as in the feeling, like my willpower is sinking, and i’m kinda bleeding, and i’m kinda screaming, and all that’s left is nothing. depression, as in just. not. caring. depression as in, two days ago everything was fine, but this morning i am paper crumpling in my own fists, a castle collapsing. depression, as in a dead body on my shoulders i have to lift every morning. depression, as in the voice inside me that whispers stop trying. a blinking cursor. i shoot myself down like this is war. my therapist once said that she thinks i am so used to war that i do not know what peace is, so i approach everything as war. so my brain has not been wired to understand concepts like acceptance or freedom of speech or equality. so therefore, i always have to be better. and the concept of growth or learning scares me, because it means compared to the me of the future the me of right now right in front of you is stupid, and worthless, and silly, and you’re probably laughing at me, and all the lightning bolt words slip through my tongue and curve back at me. and i once told my therapist that i know punching myself is not healthy, but i just can’t figure out what the problem is, i mean i’ve never left bruises, i mean it only hurts for a second, i mean the feeling. the feeling, is so loud and so heavy and so screaming that i just need to get it out somehow. like pain can be self-harmed out of me. and i’ve heard it described other ways, but all i really know right now is that being an overachiever feels like i am a block of wood, carving myself to nothing. carving myself to empty. glaring myself down in the mirror. thighs: too fat. cheeks: too wide. and i imagine that a functional person would be able to say oh well, i’ll survive. but my heart is a manuscript i have marked up so many times, it looks like i’m bleeding, even when i’m not bleeding, oh god it’s hard to explain exactly without falling, and i can tell you right now that even talking about this and thinking about the feelings behind it means my fists are curling into themselves and the feeling slips through me and it’s 11 o’clock i need to write something in order to prove myself to myself and so in that way this page is the gladiator arena i fight in every single night and every single morning… my lungs are collapsing… my worries have me caged inside my own body… there are typos in everything… i cannot lift the weight of myself… think maybe i am melting…


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