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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july 19th, 2019

july 19th, 2019(1)

and the stars glimmer on the horizon. we spend most of the day watching a series of unfortunate events on netlfix and discussing cults and taking turns reading each other fanfiction. on the roof. and i close my eyes. and let the air rush over me. and it’s probably not safe, which is the point, because it’s silent, and you can hear the birds, screaming, and it’s 1a.m. and i tell you to sleep but i’ll stay awake long enough for you to read the first chapter you’ve been writing all night to me, because being sleepless is different when you’re tangled up in a blanket on someone’s bedroom floor because there is no damage that cannot be undone by sleeping in until ten a.m. beside someone. and the sun rises. and i think the therapy is helping, because for the first time in a long time, i’m not afraid of being alone, and i’m not exhausted, and my head feels new again. because we’re laughing on our stomach and we’re drinking tea, and we’re cuddling cats. and i’m reading you fanfiction at 1a.m, and i don’t even think it’s helping but i do it anyway. because the words taste nice on my tongue. because for a while, i don’t feel like a bad friend. or a bad person. and my mind can’t hurt me because if you start tossing and turning in your sleep i’ll be there to battle the nightmares away. and i think i trust you to do the same for me. because i think at this point, you know a good half of me, and that’s more than most people ever see. because i think i have trust issues, but in the acoustic guitar and the dreaming crackles of your speakers, it all sort of disappears. because we’re friends. and that means we can build a little bubble of time where we can be kids for a while. and that means that for one perfect second, talking about our emotions at 1a.m., i feel like a miracle.


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i want to self-harm and i do not

i-want-to-self-harm-and-i-do-not1
trigger warning: self-harm

i want to self-harm. i want to self-harm really fucking badly right now, if i’m being totally honest about this. and i tell my therapist that i think it helps to numb the pain out if i just focus on hating myself so much that finally, there’s something in my chest that doesn’t feel like chaos. // i am two weeks clean of self-harming and i’m scared of who i’ll be without a long list of mental disorders towering behind me. and i’m scared that this means from now on in, my story will be boring. because my head is a runaway train and maybe i’m just a fake, because some twisted part of me likes how i look in this light; falling asleep imagining slicing up my body into a thousand different microscope slides because i never thought ten pounds could bring so much hate to life. // i want to self-harm and i do not. because i’m stubborn. because i’m tired. because i don’t want to be this person. because i want to mean it when i say it’s getting better. // i want to self-harm and i clasp my hands together. and breathe in. and close my eyes. and tilt my head up. and up. and up into the night. and i’m not going to say it’s pretty. not gonna say it’s like some kind of story where it’s that easy but somewhere between shaking hands and deep breaths and fingers slamming into the keys for a moment… i’m free.


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