how to bury a feeling

trigger warning: bullying, depersonalization, self-hatred, anxiety, depression

so you’re sitting out in a hallway. and you’re six years old. and you’re different, as in you’re ahead, and therefore you’ve done something wrong. and  you clench your fists. close your eyes. build electric fences except only in your mind so every time you disobey yourself it’ll feel kinda like getting hit by lightning and maybe that’ll kill the part of you that needed their love, and that’s a good thing. don’t let yourself feel anything. don’t let yourself need anything. let the anxiety surround you. let it hem you in. and when it tells you you’re worthless, listen, but don’t let yourself know about that bit, because it’s complicated, and the complicated makes the sky kind of pixelate every time you touch it so stop. stare at yourself in the mirror, and go numb. you are a computer and every part of you is turned off. turn it all off. turn off the lights, and stare into the darkness with nightmares in your eyes. and you’ll be so afraid of the monsters eating you in the night you’ll sleep with a pillowcase wrapped around your head all the fucking time. and there will be a lead box of sadness in your chest and you’re not really sure what is, and you’re not really sure where it comes from, it just explodes sometimes and the world goes black and white and it’s all too much to process and you think this feeling like you’re lifting up off your body and everything is hollow all around you and there’s nothing keeping you from drowning is taking over and the constellations glisten in the background and somehow that makes it worse. and mental illness feels like someone chopped off a couple of your limbs and then laughed and walked away and then scoffed when you decided to be ok with the fact that you’ll never function like a normal person anyway. and you i mean i could be ok, and i can feel the small seedling of hope buried deep down inside me, but it’s only a seedling, and seedlings aren’t anything you can live inside. and it’s complicated, so can we please not question it. and it’s complicated, and i’m sure you won’t get it, and if you do get it you fucking shouldn’t because a small part of me wants to rip up everything i’ve ever written just to make myself cry and my therapist calls it self-sabotage but i don’t know if that’s what it is or not because it’s always more complicated than a diagnosis. i need to write a hundred thousand poems and then maybe i could make sense of this. or maybe everything could just melt into the cold that wipes the happy from my veins because we’re all contestants in a competition and that competition is pain and if i hurt more than you i think you’ll give me love or acceptance or maybe just a second of your attention. and if it’s a choice, can’t i just rip everything away and then tomorrow will everything be perfect will i be happy i want to be happy i want to be better i don’t want to be a monster…


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