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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pandora

pandora(1)


trigger warning: suicidal thoughts, self-harm

because have you ever heard this story? the one about a girl who has monsters in her head since the day she is born. the one where the girl grows up like a bomb just waiting to go off building walls of fire around her skull and watching as little peices of her slowly. let. go. the one where the girl lets the monsters out, and it looks a lot like a tornado. and the girl has trouble sleeping at night because she knows that if she does she’ll be alone. the one about the girl who some days feels like nothing more than a calamity. the one where sometimes, the girl worries until she can’t breathe because at least anxiety counts as company. and so the girl drowns herself in self-hatred. smashes her heart and tries her best to bury the pieces and burying the pieces turns into lying on the floor bleeding like a catastrophe and then the girl realizes. that people don’t like you when you’re messy. and so the girl stuffs her mental illness into a box and hopes that’ll make this ok because really, i’m fine, i mean whatever i just want to die sometimes just want to tear myself apart when i look in the mirror right just imaging slicing myself up piece by piece until i’m skinny because sometimes it’s just hard to lie there alone with my body. and so the girl closes her eyes, and learns that sometimes, when they feel like they can’t handle it anymore, even seeds go into a kind of protected mode, somewhere between life and death and i am the girl, with her headphones turned all. the fucking. way. up. and i am the girl, and it’s one of those days. when i can feel myself collapsing and it just feels somehow like the end. like maybe this was just one massive game of pretend. and maybe i’m still more alone than ever now because all i ever wanted was for someone to stay. because i don’t need you to be perfect. i just need you to promise you’ll still be there with me.  but right now, you’re not even saying anything. so have you heard the story about a girl called pandora whose monsters swirl around her head, and she can feel them, slipping into her skin and taking control. again.


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half asleep on the couch writing poetry

half asleep on the couch writing poetry(1)(1).jpg

and i have not left the house all day but i can’t drive so i guess that’s probably normal and ok. and i haven’t left the couch in hours. probably written around 2000 words today. mind smudged and just a little bit empty. newspaper articles and courage don’t really mean anything. this day doesn’t really mean anything. or whatever. right? because right now, i just want to close my eyes and see all the lies you never said until it all melts in my head and stare at the flicker of the city lights until my mind goes dark again. until my heart cuts out like a radio broadcast because right now, i just want to sleep. or be numb. or not feel anything. or cyberstalk the kids who used to bully me because i want you to beg me for forgiveness for all the ways you’ve fucked me up, goddamnit. because i want to sleep and i do not want to sleep because i can barely string a sentence together right now but what of the sky falls? and i know the happy poems are the ones you want the most but i don’t know if cat really wants to hear about those. or if i can really tell the truth while i’m writing those. because i know there are people who want to stick around to see me in the sunlight but what about when things are dark inside? what about the days when i can’t give you light? what if this is the last time i see you? what if my memories of you are slowly fossilizing and someday there will be no one to sit on the roof and count stars with, and i’ll be all alone in my head please. don’t. leave. please. don’t. leave. please. i need you. and i want to sleep in an apartment with many cats sharing a bunk bed with you. where everything is simple and uncomplicated and we are just a bunch of friends since childhood. but life never lets me keep people, does it?


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out there

out there(1)(1)

you know, when i was younger, they told me i could be a hero i just wasn’t prepared for it to feel like this. like standing in the middle of a tornado wondering how the hell you’re not falling to pieces. and when i was younger, they told me i could do big things in the world i just didn’t realize it would feel like this though. like bleeding on an open stage. like curled up in a silent room trying your goddamn hardest to concentrate. like trying, and trying, and trying to lift the darkness away but it doesn’t feel like it’s gonna ease up more than a little today.  and i wish my head wasn’t broken shards on the side of a highway, and i’m trying hard but it’s just difficult to pretend that everything is ok. because i know its just cat fucking with my head but sometimes, it feels like i’m not even that good at this. feels like this is just another way to pass through the small empty hollow of space in my chest unnoticed. and i’m standing at the edge and the wind whistles past me, and i don’t know how to get it right. get it right. get it right. as in, capture this feeling perfectly. because i’m not perfect. i’m not. which is not the same thing as worthless, i guess. but right now, the roar in my head is so. fucking. loud and at the same time so completely silent. and when you’ve been alone with yourself for so long i guess it’s hard to to fraternize with the voices in your head because even poisoned apples look beautiful right before you fall. you fall. you fall. you fall. and it all feels like it’s coming at me a mile-a-minute.  and i’m standing at the edge of a cliff, with no idea what happens next. and you’re watching. and i guess… this is it.


i wrote this right before a performance i’d spent months planning for and then finished it after, honestly just as a way of processing everything that happened. putting your feelings out in the open period is honestly really hard, but putting your feelings out into the world when you have anxiety is really hard. for the record, i did really well, and it was the first performance i’ve ever done that i didn’t have the profound desire to run for my life. which is, you know, a plus. 😉


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patronus (2)

patronus 2(1).jpg
trigger warning: slight suicide mention

my therapist tells me that i’m addicted to feeling sad. which isn’t honestly that surprising because most days, it’s hard to even tell what the truth is which is another thing frequently discussed in our sessions. my therapist tells me it’s time to stop being addicted. my therapist tells me punching myself is essentially another form of being a smoker, and that i need to quit. not because it hurts. but because punching does not help in any way to deal with the underlying issue, whatever that is. my therapist tells me my thoughts are mine and for all the times anxiety lied to me, i was only ever in control of this. and i don’t have to think anything i don’t want to.  and that sometimes my thoughts aren’t even true. and it’s honestly hard to believe. that i’m in control of what i do. that maybe my future could be more than crying on the couch, my tears soaking in through the fabric because even though nothing’s actually happened it feels like my whole life is falling apart right now. my therapist tells me that if i can write whole novels and maintain websites i should be able to do this. i should be able to tear apart the walls of myself just to rebuild them and put in insulation cleaning out all the lies i don’t need anymore and throwing them all in the garbage. my therapist tells me it’s all right to cry. my therapist tells me what harm reduction is and i know it’s just my head but does that mean it’s ok to punch myself if it’s that or cutting myself which means i can just keep punching myself because it’ll always be better than seeing a confirmation notification pop up in my mind and hitting continue because it’s not depression i promise but right now i just don’t know what else to do. my therapist tells me i’ll still be someone beyond my sadness and that it’s ok to let go of some of this baggage. my therapist tells me i can do this, and for the first time in a long time, i believe her. just a little bit.


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