overcast

overcast(1)(1)

my head is like an overcast day. as in, the edges of the panic. slowly, slowly, slowly creeping in just like the fog is. as in, i can breathe, but only by a little bit. my head is an overcast day. like… self-sabotaging and not sleeping at very reasonable times today. my head is an overcast day, and i will bury myself in the blankets again. and i will try and fall into the nothingness again. and some days i think i am broken and some days i actually am and it’s never as bad as it seems in reality, but that might just be the painkiller kicking in anyway. anyway. my head is like an overcast day because i’m underslept and i feel like shit, but for some twisted reason i keep on going anyway. and my head is spinning, and spinning, and spinning. and i don’t know. what’s happening. and i don’t know why this is happening. except i do. i know that i’ve been tearing myself apart from the inside for a long time, and that most days i don’t even feel like stopping. i know that i write and i write and i write and then i bury myself under the blankets and try my hardest to keep hiding. i know everything is changing. and i know, i know, i know. and please don’t come up to me. don’t make me say hello. don’t ask me anything because whatever you want to say i don’t fucking know.


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dear instagram

dear instagram, my life is not copyrighted to anyone but me. this is my heart. this is my head. i get to choose what i share about it. my life is my life,  and i am free of what anyone else thinks about it. my moments are not something you can commercialize. my moments are not yours to demolish. this is my heart. and this is my life. and i’m trying, and right now i’m not doing too great, but… i’m trying. and i’m just tired of needing people who will never love me to love me. love me. just love me… and i’m tired of waiting. i’m tired of begging. i’m tired of being the one on my knees. the one who needs, and needs, and needs. the one who coats her personality in overcast days and false sun rays because then it’ll all seem normal, right? is this better? dear instagram, please stop making me feel like my writing has to be a certain way. like my mind has to be a certain way. like the way i see the world has to fit neatly inside a culture, stereotype or cliché. dear instagram, i am not doing this because i want to, i am doing this because i feel like i have to. i am doing this because i want people to notice me. i am doing this because i want a megaphone for my poetry and i’ll put up with it i guess. if i have to. dear instagram, my mind is fucked up enough as is. please stop, all right? just, please. stop. because life is complicated. more complicated than any picture can encompass. because i guess i’ve been in this place for a long, long time. the place where i am tucking the blankets in tighter and tighter, because i’m six years old. and in reality, there’s only bits of dust and some darkness, but in my head, there are monsters, tearing slowly through the mattress, and they’re trying to eat me, and they’re hungry… but in reality, nothing’s happening. and i bleed. and i try. and eventually, i end up cast out on the street corner, every single time. because when i was eleven, i remember thinking that all i wanted in a guy was someone who would love me back. remember thinking that was romantic. when that is not romantic. and i know who i am. it’s just… hard sometimes. to take a deep breath. close my eyes. open my eyes. and not just wince at the sight of it. because i want this to be about more than pretending. i want this to be the first healthy friendship i have ever had. i want this to be the start of a better kind of story. not the rosy kind. not the kind with rose-tinted glasses and smiley faces. not the kind of story that doesn’t know pain. the kind of story that cries on each other’s shoulders. the kind that gives you pep talks when you just want to bury yourself in blankets and stop being alive. the kind that lights up when it sees you and spins you around in circles until you’re about to colllapse. the kind that stays. the kind that loves. dear instagram, i don’t need you to tell me how to be who i am.


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promise

Add a heading(1)promise myself i’ll practice. as in, promise myself i’ll stitch my broken heartstrings back together and make them into something like a tapestry. something coherent. something that will make others marvel at its beauty.  promise myself i’ll do this. promise i’ll get to it tomorrow. because i need to get to it tomorrow. because i need to stop being afraid by tomorrow, because by tomorrow, everything will have changed but god, did you think anyone would care about what it’s like inside your echoing bombshell of a brain? because there are people who have it worse than i do, and maybe i am just another piece of shrapnel cast away from the scene of the crime. promise myself i’ll fight. promise myself tomorrow i’ll wake up and i will climb up from the abyss and i will pretend to be all right. but i will not be all right. i will not know what i mean anymore when i write poetry because i know that it’s something but i’m not sure what it is. and i guess i’m still a little scared of letting this feeling out when i’m not sure what this monster even is, but it’s mine, and doesn’t that mean it’s my responsibility to make sure it doesn’t hurt anyone other than myself this time? and i’m not sure what’s true and what’s just my head. but i’m afraid to look at myself in the mirror because i can’t stand the fact that i still can’t fix my head. that i’m still the kind of client my therapist has to convince their life is worth it. that i’m the kid, curled up in the back of the class, getting perfect grades. faking a smile. pretending they understand the better half of this. pretending they’re all right. pretending they’re all right because if i tell you, i’ll have to tell myself too. and i’m standing at the edge and i know someday, i’m going to do this. someday, i’m going to become everything i thought i never could be and i’m going to make something from the ashes. i’m just scared it won’t be beautiful.


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a good day

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and maybe i will take lavender baths / because that sounds like something people would do in poetry / and i will go to bed at midnight and wake up at 10a.m. and i will not need coffee to wake up / and i will be calm / and i will not use food as a way of burying my emotions / and i will keep trying /  i will keep writing / sorting through my feelings like puzzle pieces and i will try to go slowly / i will try to shatter myself under the weight of expectation / i will try / and i’ll probably fail half the time / but i’ll try to be the kind of person my therapist would be proud to hear about / the kind of person who knows what they’re doing inside their own mind / and / i will stay up late / writing alternate universes where we are superheroes / listening to the sound of the cicadas / and the keystrokes / and the hope / the small, lonely piece of hope / a car ride and we’re all alone / and i will try and not be swallowed this time / and i will try to figure out who i am without everyone else inside of me / and i will try / and today is international self-care day and i feel like it’s kind of pathetic how terrible i have been at this so far all right / and i will try to love myself as the me i am / or at least figure out what that even looks like right now / and i will try / and i will try and sleep well / enough / well / enough / and breathe / and believe / that i will get through this / eventually / and try not to feel like i’m standing at the edge of some highway with my hand out in the air waiting for someone to pick me up / and the heat is splitting / and my mind is slowly dissolving / and i will try to talk back to my anxiety / and maybe this time / it’ll feel / something like reality


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and now all the flowers are dying

and now all the flowers you gave me are dying(1)

because / on the day of the performance / you gave me cut flowers / and you smiled / and you encouraged me like you always did because / i guess that’s what you do / and you said / that i did good / and it didn’t feel like i did good right then / but i think you were right / because for the first time in a long time / i wasn’t terrified and it’s the last day of school / and the flowers are dying / and i miss you is all i mean / i miss / feeling / like i would never be lost again / because now i’m just sitting here writing poetry / half-asleep / and aching / and probably totally catastrophizing / because anxiety can do that to me sometimes / make me feel like my insides are being split open sometimes / make my head wash itself to nothing only to clear everything out on these shelves and here we go all over again / here we go / and / i / slowly / fall / and on the day of the performance / i run into the bathroom / and i stare into the mirror / and i splash water on my face / and i stare into the mirror and / it’s all your fault it’s all your fault it’s all your fault / and / i can’t think and i can’t think / and it all rushes through like a flock of butterflies on their way to die / way / way / way / too quickly and / what if nothing is what i thought it would be / and / what if it’s over after this / and what if i’ll never be happy / and what if


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