cold (spoken word)


“Resilience” used according to license from patrickdearteaga.com

“Wind Sound” by Mark DiAngelo on soundbible.com (http://soundbible.com/1810-Wind.html)

Poem and whispering in background by me!

Read the text of this poem by clicking on the word here. Find me on PatreonYouTubeInstagramWattpadTumblr, and on Twitter.

november 27th, 2019

i’m losing control. i know i’m losing my control. and you’re inside of me now. swimming in my throat.

so get away from me. get away from me. because i’m going to explode.

because i’ve been hurt enough times that i am not going to take the risk of letting go. and don’t touch me. get off me. i don’t deserve your love, and in the end you’re only going to reject me. i don’t think i was made for this kind of reality.

so close your eyes, okay? say that you hate me until i beg you not to go, and gouge scars into my chest, right through my clothes. slam the door closed…


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just a little unsteady

shaking hands. paranoid thoughts. and i think there’s something wrong. because i can’t breathe. can’t think clearly. spent the entire morning just trying to get over my anxiety. 

pounding heart, and i think i’m alone in the world, and someone please acknowledge me.

and of course you’ll try to talk me out of it. you’ll grab onto my hand, and tell me you love me. tell me you love me. tell me you love me…

but it never sinks in. not properly. i can’t feel the floor or my mind or the vague sensation of gravity, could someone please tell me what’s happening to me.

and if there’s a pill i could take. a magic spell i could say. or, i don’t know, something to squirm through the plot holes of my mind and make it all go away that would be great thanks. good bye. ok.

i am ok. i am ok. i am ok. animated motions, watching myself from far far away. and you know, this is the thing about anxiety: there are days when it’s honestly ok. days when my mind is deep, dark lake and yeah it’s a little scary, and cold, and generally shitty but… i don’t know, maybe in the right light maybe we could still call it pretty. 

and then there are days like this. when my mind is a tsunami. when the dark thoughts bear down upon me, and there’s nothing i can do. nothing i can say. and at this point, it’s out of my control. ok?


I keep having really bad panic attacks at school–so I guess this was my best attempt at writing it out. I’m not sure, but I’m pretty sure this poem was penned at a city bus stop while I was waiting for the bus to come take me home from school, but not entirely sure about that. Anyway, if you’re going through the same thing as I am right now–if you’re in the same, dark, shitty place where everything feels like it’s encompassed by a mental illness, I just want to say that you’re valid. And it’s hard. It’s so hard. But you are never the only one who feels like this. And I know we’ll get through it. ❤

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stardust

sweaters and night air and distant traffic, and maybe if i try hard enough i’ll find some way of romanticizing it.

eyes half closed. downing another cup of coffee, and pinching my forearm, and hiding in the 12a.m. darkness.

and what does it say about me? that even after all this time, i’m still trying to figure out what’s an illness and what’s just my personality?

i hope this is not my personality. but at the same time, the idea of being separate from it… it terrifies me. because i don’t know who that person is. because i don’t know where i could fly if i could let go of even a fraction of the weight of it.

and on nights like this, i would like to think i am made of stardust. i am wind in your hair and campfires by the ocean, or anything that makes me feel like i’m not hopeless.

i am not the end of the world. i am not panic, or fear, or the deadweight of loneliness.

i am the sunrise. staring back at me in the mirror. because for all the times you were blind to it, the beauty has been there. just waiting for you to notice.

always.


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it is august 16th, 2019, and i am officially a mess

after flatsound, kind of. a little bit.


trigger warning: self-harm. if you need to talk to anyone, no matter what you’re going through, find someone to talk to in your area by clicking on the word here.

and you call it depression. but it’s not depression. it’s just… a box, i guess. a box, nestled softly in my chest. and it’s august 16th, and i am officially a mess. and i am officially the kid who doesn’t know whether or not her therapist is telling the truth about this. and it’s just that even though i feel like shit right now, i know in a moment i’ll be over it. i just don’t know how to be okay with the fact that i don’t want to hurt myself today. and you can call it depression, but it’s not depression, because i still want to live it’s just for a moment, i am the empty room and every lightbulb in my head has short circuited. and you call it depression, as i hug a pillow and speak in sandpaper-voices. and you call it mental illness, and that feels about right, because right now, i just feel so fundamentally sick. so maybe i will cough up my problems. and maybe i will fall apart in your arms.. and maybe someone will fucking think long enough to bring me flowers, because i don’t think you understand that this is hard. having a brain that wants you dead. not knowing how to touch you without falling apart. and not even knowing how to speak. and living in the dark, because outside is worse, or maybe it’s just your head. or maybe it’s just your stupid fucking broken heart. it’s hard. because this is war. only… this is the kind that no one gives you medals for.


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