midnight

trigger warning: self-harm

and my heart pounds in my chest like the world’s gonna end. and for some reason, i feel like throwing up. and i want to cut myself. and i want to explode, but i can’t say no. because it’ll never be as good as it was. and because i will never be as good as i was. because i will never rise up, like i’ve always dreamed of being able to rise up. and good god, can you just try to act something like an immature grown-up? because there’s no time to be confused. even though the world is turning black and white. and i won’t let myself go to sleep until midnight. and i’m drifting out of my skin. because i’m not in control. because who said i was ever in control? and i want to scream, but there’s no room in this world for my voice right now. and the moonlight screeches through the window, and the world turns black and white. and for a moment, i forget everything i’ve ever wanted. everything i’ve ever stood for. and i stand in front of the mirror… and i don’t even know who this person is anymore.


i wrote this at just after midnight on a really, really bad day a couple weeks ago. i’m not sure, but things feel like they might be getting a little better now. anyway, this deals with some heavy stuff, so just in case you need it–find a crisis line in your area here.


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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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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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september 13th, 2019

it would be nice. to hear your voice, and believe that it’s all right. because my head feels like it’s melting. and i don’t know what to believe. and it would be nice to not feel this way, for a while, okay? to not feel… alone. or empty. or… like a castle, crumbling to pieces. or like a girl who can’t stop tearing herself to pieces, because it’s habit. and because rather than playing with toys in the basement like a normal kid you had an illness. and now maybe now do you understand why it hurts like this? why it’s so hard to let go like this? and why i can’t even step out of my room without having a panic attack like this? like this? like this? and it would be really nice to not hate myself so much all the time. or to have any idea what’s going on inside my head. or to be able to maintain a stable social interaction, but obviously… that’s not going to happen. at least… not this time. because that’s the thing about mental illness, isn’t it?  if you get a broken leg, you can put it in a cast. and if you get the flu, there’s a shot for that. but there are no surgeries to fix a childhood spent believing you’re worthless. there is no instant cure. there is no miracle fix. even if people can listen. and help. and hold your hand, for however long they have. and give you hugs, and suggestions, and make you feel okay for the first time in ages. but this is my fight. this will always be my fight. and no one else can change that.


i think the thing about getting help is–before you actually get it, at least for me, it had this kind of mythic status in my head. once i got help, i would be okay. i would be normal. i would be cured. just like that. i don’t think it’s like that. therapy helps. it really does help. but it helps you fix yourself. going to therapy is work. maybe i’ve always thought of it like a medical surgery–like something i just had to lie still and wait for the anesthesia to kick in for. but it’s not like that. it’s the opposite. going to therapy is like operating on yourself while fully conscious. therapy is relearning everything you ever thought was true about yourself. and i can’t say how much that has helped. but in the end… you still have to choose what you do with that. no one else can fight the battle for you. they can only support you in it.


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a recurring issue of mine

thoughts shift in and out focus / and i can’t quite make my mind understand this and i’m so tired / but it’s 1a.m. and i miss you for no apparent reason / and i’m getting sick again / but what does it matter because in general i think i’m just a fucking sick person / and my eyes slam closed / and closed / and then open / and everything is broken / and the words shift out / and out / and then into focus / and i keep writing / and i keep going / because i have to do this / i have to do this now / i have to get this over with / and i have to keep spinning like a broken record / and keep going / keep going keep going / and nothing makes sense / but everything makes sense / and / nothing is beautiful / but everything is beautiful / and maybe that’s the issue / and maybe that’s why / i just want to stop these thoughts / and stop these feelings / so i can breathe / or something / and get it off me / get it off me / get it off me / make it stop / flick every single light in this room / off / off / off me / and make my mind get / off / off / off me / and make me not feel like an alien in my own body / off / off / off  me / and where / is / my / gravity?


sleep is tough for me. i’m just gonna shove this here in case someone reading this needs it–if you need to talk to anybody, no matter what you’re going there, find a crisis line in your area here.


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