drain

and i watch you fall. yet again. and even instagram filters can’t make your situation look any prettier. because nothing will ever make it prettier. because… it’s nothing. i mean. whatever. just another year spent in suffering. just another mind went crazy in this fucked up society. as i watch you fall into oblivion, but only from a distance. because i don’t know how to be near this. and because i’m tired. and because my mind is about to explode. and i don’t know. and right now, i can’t handle this. and i’m sorry about that. i’m sorry that i don’t know who you are. i’m sorry i’m always tired. i’m sorry i can’t carry anything else on my shoulders. and i’m sorry this is happening to you. i’m sorry this is happening to all of you. and i’m sorry i can’t take the pain away; can’t lift it up off all of your shoulders, and carry it for a while so you get a break, even if only for a day. i’m sorry i never knew you. i’m sorry you weren’t a happy person. i’m sorry it all ended up this way. and i’m sorry we’re all standing at the edge of the bathtub watching the water slowly circle down the drain. and watching the last fragments of you slowly circle down the drain. and trying our best to avoid the moment when i can’t help but imagine myself just like you, someday.


my grandmother has dementia. occasionally, i’ll write a poem about it as a way of trying to process it. i won’t pretend to understand fully what she’s going through, what it must be like to be the primary caregiver for someone with this illness. i’ve always been the outside perspective, because i never really knew my grandmother that well growing up. the one who saw things logically before they saw things emotionally. it’s not so much a stabbing grief, as a slow, vague sadness that even now, i don’t really know how to process. that’s a simple explanation of what this poem is about, but… i think it’s about more than that to me. it’s about suffering, and illness, and… not knowing what to do about it. i don’t know if anyone will even relate to this, but i just wanted to shove it out there anyway.


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seeking after an ideal i do not know how to become

because you are a puzzle piece, and you don’t fit. and maybe all you can do is pretend it’s fine, even though it isn’t. because you are a puzzle piece. which means you’re supposed to be normal. and good at explaining things to people when they need help with shit. even though i’m crying on the kitchen floor, and i can’t figure out how to make sense of this, and my head is so heavy, and i don’t know how much longer i can handle the weight of carrying it. and honestly, i’m just making this up as i go, and i don’t know i don’t know i don’t know, and i’m standing in front of what feels like the whole world, and the weight of even being looked at is enough to make me want to explode. and so i’ll whittle myself to perfection as i stand before the mirror until this face looking back isn’t anyone i  know. and maybe if i fell, no one would even know… or maybe they all would know… and maybe they would scream, and shout, and offer hands only to then… let… go… and so i let go… and so i scream… and so i fall apart… and so i laugh because laughing is what i’m supposed to do, and because laughing is what hurts the most… and because i’m supposed to be normal, right? or no one will love me? because seriously. i don’t know.


it feels like i’m slowly shredding myself down to nothing these days. i’m trying to be perfect. i’m doing a pretty good job at meeting my outrageous expectations for myself. but when i look in the mirror, it’s hard to recognize the person looking back at me. on the worst days. i used to know how to be myself, and now… i don’t know.


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a night with no stars

because it’s foggy, now. and every time i go out, it’s freezing cold, and i don’t remember when the sky fell. and i don’t get it. where my mental illness starts, and where i end. and where my mental illness ends me, and where i end it. and if i can ever really end it. and if i can ever really think like a normal person, or something like that. and i am a puppet. and i can’t breathe. and it’s foggy, and you’ve never felt further away from me. and so i try to run away but the dark just sort of keeps following me, and if i’m being honest some days i don’t want to bother fighting it. because i can’t even see the sky above me. can’t fucking stop taking myself so seriously. and making mountains out of molehills, and somethings out of nothings. because that’s pretty much what it means to have anxiety. and so i’ll call myself anxiety so i can look into the mirror and not have to see myself anymore. and you’ll find me lying there on the floor. begging for help as my ribcage starts to crumple and my soul catches fire. even though i have all the help i ever could have asked for. even though i know no one can save me from myself. but i can’t feel my chest. and my hands have gone numb. and it’s so cold out. and i don’t know how to do that. and i don’t know who the old me was. and i don’t know if she could have handled this or not. but i can’t see myself in her anymore.


a sort-of sequel poem to “a night spent looking at the stars.” (which you can read by clicking here.) because… i don’t know. i use that line a lot in this poem, because it reslly represents where i’m at right now. i thought i was doing better. i really thought i was doing better. i thought i was going to be all right, for a while. i don’t know what it is exactly, but i don’t feel that way anymore. just in case you need it, my mental health resources post is here.


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september 11th, 2019

trigger warning: implied suicidal thoughts. if you need help for whatever you’re going through, find a crisis line in your area here.


i am an alien. floating through my own skin. and i’ll try to breathe, but maybe there’s no gravity because somehow my lungs just refuse to suck in. and maybe there’s no gravity, but i need you to hold your ground. and i need you to write happy things for once. i need you to not be so worried about what other people think for once. and i need you to just try. try to be all right. except i know perfectly well that you won’t and so watch me. as i crash onto the ground. and as i still can’t breathe. and as the music echoes through my headphones, but i’ll never let it out of me. and i’ll never let you let go of me. and the pressure of the moment builds before it explodes inside of me. and it’s all inside of me. and my brain is really just another organ, right? another war waged inside of me. another day spent counting all the reasons i should just die already inside of me. and i can’t stop crying on the driveway, blood-spattered emotions for everyone to see, and feel free to think whatever the hell they want to think of me. and tear me to pieces, and leave me parked right in front of my endless pile of scars and sad poetry. and you’ll tell me how much i disgust you for the thousandth time. and i will believe everything.


school–just dealing with being in a building with other kids my age–is really hard for me. in so many ways, that i don’t know how to completely explain. i wrote this on september 11th, 2019–because titling poems is really hard for me of late for some reason–and just edited it recently.


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september 20th, 2019

trigger warning: self-harm, suicidal thoughts. please be safe while reading, and if you need to talk to anyone, my mental health resources post is here.

scissors. and the blade at my finger. and the bedroom light, and the silence, and the text messages gradually trickling through. but it’s all right, because these wounds that still won’t heal? i deserve it. i deserve to be in pieces on the floor. i deserve the water rising in my lungs, and the suicidal thoughts. and don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry. because i’m too tired to be a mess again. and why am i so tired… and why can’t i stop running through the motions of this life, as every day goes by like sand in the wind and it’s coming too quick, and i take in a breath but there’s no time to let it out because there’s scissors, and the bedroom light, and my stomach flipping itself inside out and whispering good night. good night. good night. because it’s probably not healthy to stay up writing until way past midnight. and if only writing out the entire story of my life were as simple as sketching out an outline. because it all seemed so much simpler in the outline… and why is my mind just a pile of broken, flickering neon lights? and why am i a signpost on the side of a highway in the middle of nowhere, and i need to know where to go but the letters are blurred, and the power is out, and the shadows flicker across every decision i’ve ever made because it’s never too late to cast the past in doubt. and i can’t process any of this. so instead i’m sitting here. past midnight. slamming at a keyboard. like if i write hard enough, it’ll all drip out. out. out. and i’ll be able to meet someone’s eyes without having a breakdown, which is more than i can say right now. but if that actually works, why isn’t this mess in my head cleaned up by now?


of late existing in general has been really hard for me. i’m hanging in there, and i’m safe, but… it’s hard. if you follow my writing, that’s probably pretty easy to figure out. everything is so confusing right now. this spiral of not-knowing that feels sometimes like it’s just going to tighten, tighter and tighter. swallow me up completely. the end. that’s irrational, it might paralyze me, but confusion can’t kill me. this poem was written about a specific incident, on september 20th, 2019, when i just felt… like a horrible person. writing this was the only way i knew how to really deal with it.


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