and i guess anxiety just has this way of fucking with me. broken glass in my head, and the screaming ocean, and i’m not going to even try to process these emotions.
and if no one’s here that’s fine, because anger will save me. and if i can’t think clearly until 1a.m. then i’ll just never sleep again maybe. and i’ll lash out preemptively. because if i scream loud enough, it has to mean safety.
and i’ll close the curtains, and turn the lights out. turn the lights out. turn the fucking lights out, because right now, i don’t want to see myself.
and the clouds slowly melt in my palms. and the brick-and-mortar walls start to crumble. where is my mind? i don’t think this is normal.
and i guess anxiety just has this way of fucking with me. broken glass in my head, and the screaming ocean. and what are you talking about. what emotions?
anxiety thoughts. like maybe i don’t deserve to be here. maybe it’s all my fault. and of course they don’t make sense. but i still believe them. just in case i’m wrong about that.
roaring wind. and the ocean, and don’t look down. don’t look down. don’t think for one second you can trust yourself. or… not yourself. your illness. some days it’s hard to tell the difference.
don’t ask. just keep apologizing, and apologizing, and apologizing, until you forget what you’re even saying. because it’s better safe than sorry. better self-destructive than lonely. and if anyone else hates me more than i have hated myself, i think i’ll probably explode or something.
until you can’t say anything. until you’re hiding behind a bookshelf, because what if you do something wrong, and i guess today’s mood is just anxious with a side of numb.
you know, you’re supposed to just stop. and maybe there’s something wrong with me, but it’s never been that easy. it’s dragging yourself up a mountain in the freezing cold. it’s rocks on your hands, and maybe you’re bleeding no one knows, and at this point all you want is to make it out of the snow. but maybe that’s not going to happen. so maybe it would be better to just close your eyes, and look up at the sky, and let go.
like this is just a fairytale. where you fall into someone else’s arms, and just pretend it’s fine just drink more water just try new clothes and look at you. it’s over. you’re good to go.
but… that never works. just in case you didn’t know.
maybe if i try hard enough, i can just… numb myself cold.
and i’ll try to breathe, but my lungs are made of stone.
and i’m just a body. so none of this matters, really.
and i can’t stop questioning. can’t stop thinking. and i would scream for help, but i don’t think anyone would hear me calling.
and i don’t know who i am exactly. but whatever it is, i can feel it slipping away. slowly.
and the screen light will swallow me.
and maybe if i tried hard enough, i could just step away. and it wouldn’t feel like this. like the panic was rising in my throat, and oh my god i’m not the one in control, and oh my god, oh my god, i think i’m letting go.
and oh my god, what’s happening to me? can someone please just explain me what’s happening to me? and tell me it’s going to be okay. hold me in your arms and tell me it’s just a bad day. tell me it’s gonna get better tomorrow so don’t worry about it sweetie–
because it’s been a long time since i’ve felt as alone as i do today.
This poem has been in the works for a long time, vaguely sitting there in the back of my Google Drive. Vaguely based off some stuff I’ve been feeling lately. I hope those who are reading this don’t relate to this poem, but if you do, just… know you’re not alone. I feel this way too, and even if I’ve never met you I can say that you deserve help. You deserve to get better. And even if no one else you know does right now, I and so many other people you haven’t met yet want you here and care about you. You’re not alone. You’re never alone. Even when it feels that way.
maybe if i could grasp it when say you’re grateful. maybe if i spent a little more time trying to believe in this miracle–
maybe if she hadn’t hurt me. maybe if he hadn’t hurt me. maybe if i’d had a period in my life that could genuinely be described as happy.
maybe if i had gotten help when i needed it. maybe if help hadn’t felt so much like punishment.
maybe if she hadn’t hurt them. maybe if he hadn’t hurt them. maybe if this didn’t run in my dna.
maybe if i loved myself as much as i love you, i wouldn’t be like this. but right now, i’m just trying to get through the day.
because i don’t know what i’m doing anymore than you do. and maybe on this page, i seem like i’ve got my shit together. but i’m just a person. i’m just a kid. okay?
This poem is really personal for me. This is a lot of what I’ve been turning over in my head of late–just how young I am. I’m a teenager, not an adult, and yet so often I expect myself to function like one. I’m still trying to figure that out, to be honest. But writing this piece helped a lot. Just to sort through this crazy knot of thoughts.
trigger warning: self-harm, general heavy topics
i can’t stop doing it.
until there are battlefields all across my skin, as i reopen another little wound yet again, and somehow… don’t really feel anything about it. because it’s normal to take out your fears on your body, isn’t it?
every time i see myself in the mirror, i want to shatter the glass. so maybe you can understand why right now, i don’t want help. i just want you to look away, and pretend i don’t exist.
because i won’t be good enough for the monster in my head until i don’t exist. because i have to tear myself down, bit. by. bit. until there’s nothing left but a ruined statue, or a tragedy, or whatever it was you wanted.
and it’s so close to normal, until it isn’t any longer. and i’m so close to fine, until… i don’t know how to stop myself anymore.
I know I trigger warning’d this poem with self-harm, the best term I could think of, but that’s not really what this is about, I think. I don’t know, it feels more complex than that. So here’s the whole story. For a long time, I’ve struggled with picking at my skin–opening little wounds, again and again, as a way of dealing with anxiety, Scratching at myself. Demolishing my cuticles, tearing off little bits of skin without even realizing it. Compulsively fiddling with a wound when I get nervous. I don’t know what that is, I don’t have a diagnosis or any way to categorize it, but I do know that I struggle with it. It’s one of those things I don’t really know how to talk about–partially just because when you’ve been doing something so long, and especially since a young age… well, you learn to normalize it. You forget… that other people don’t live like this. So decided to write about it. Just a little bit. Even in the kind of quiet way I doubt most people reading this will pick up on.