december 27th, 2019

i’m disgusted by my body. i’m disgusted by myself. i’m disgusted by humanity.

so lift me high above my mind.  crush up my skeleton. hit the delete button. turn off the gravity.

flickering lights. black and white. i read over old journals and start to forget the reality.

and the colours always sort of melt late at night. blue, and green, and yellow, and white…

sand i’m not even sure what’s true and what’s false anymore. So find me curled up in the darkest hole i can find. hiding away, from the fucked up beast i call my mind.

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make it stop

trigger warning: suicidal thoughts mention, self-harm mention, general heavy content. need to talk to anyone? crisis lines are here.

fingers digging into my palms. why do i fantasize about self-harm so much, even on a good day?  

why am i weak like this? why did i cut myself again, digging one more tally mark into the row of scars on my broken skin?

and why don’t you fucking get it? no matter how loud i scream. no matter how well i try to explain it. why aren’t you concerned? i just… i don’t get it.

and why… am… i… so… exhausted?

Hey guys. I just wanted to say that, well, this is a vent poem. Basically, I’ve been having a lot of bad days of late, and… yeah. But that doesn’t make any of the thoughts in it true, and I know I’ve said this before, but I feel like it’s important to say again. You’re not a bad person for struggling. You’re not alone, even if you feel like it.  Suicide and self-harm aren’t solutions. But at the same time, expressing those feelings is, to me, incredibly important in terms of processing them and dealing with them in a healthy way. So please, if this poem hits close to home with you, reach out. Talk to someone you trust–a parent, a teacher, a friend, a counsellor. Just the fact that you related to this poem is a sign that you’re not the only one who feels this way. And please, hang in there. I promise that someday, someday, we’re not going to feel this way.


december 7th, 2019

i dream that the sun falls, and i collapse to my knees, and maybe… maybe i was wrong. maybe i don’t really deserve to be here at all.

and so crumple up your skull. bury all thoughts of going through with this, and stay right here. because this is where you belong.

and i am so tired of everything. of standing below the storm, and taking the pain, and closing my eyes, and locking it all away because nothing matters as long as the rest of the world will be okay.

i dream that i was only born yesterday, and how can i feel so old and so young all at once? how can i feel this way? how can my head sizzle, smoke, and crackle–

but i’m sure the pain is nothing compared to what you’re feeling anyway.

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january 5th, 2020

paper flowers and half-closed eyelids and i could get up and do something, or stop spinning myself up in circles over nothing. but… i don’t want to.

and i’m constantly tired until the lightning shoots through my veins and fuck. i just… leave me alone, okay? let me curl up on this couch and let my body leave an imprint on the cushion as i slowly fade away because i don’t want to think. i don’t really want to do anything today.

don’t want to see my friends, or write a poem, or go on a walk, or dance around the kitchen.

auto-play episodes and crumpled clouds in my palms, and how do i know it’s real, and how do i know who to trust, and maybe… maybe i’m wrong.

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and you tell me it’s gonna be ok. and i know how entitled i must seem. i know how long i’ve been in therapy. i’m trying so fucking hard to get better, i swear, ok?

and is this ok? i’m sorry if it’s too much.

and i’m sorry, if sometimes i’m needy. i’m just terrified that the second i look away of course you’re gonna leave me.

i’m sorry i take up space. i’m sorry i exist. i’m sorry my self-talk is so ridiculous, and if this feels like a lot to take in, that’s probably because… it is.

i’m not ok. my mental health is a mess. and just because i get a lot of shit done doesn’t mean i don’t feel like i’m being eaten up by my own emptiness.

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