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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july-01-2019

Copy july 1st, 2019.jpg

and. for a second, it was like. like the sky was wide and my heart cracked open and i was a functional goddamn person. and i could think clearly because my mind wasn’t broken. and i could hold onto your hand and maybe i will still be myself if i keep breathing. i’m so sorry. i love you, but… i don’t know what i’m doing. i love you, and i have no idea what this means. and i’m not part of the world like you are, and i know that’s probably going to sound mean but i can’t do this anymore. can’t be this person, who understands being part of something. because it just doesn’t make sense. can’t you hear me? because all i want sometimes is for you to hear me. because the thing about relying on your feelings to gauge reality is that your feelings fluctuate and i just wish sometimes, that my life was a book series or something. something i could write. and make every line of dialogue rest on its line. and maybe i could shut down the computer for a while, and actually sleep at night.  but the noises are so loud, and i know i shouldn’t make life decisions based off how they sound but i don’t know what i’ll tell you when you ask me how i’m doing because it’s a lot more complicated than a smile, or a frown, and if you really want to know then please don’t ask and if you do please say it now. and we convince a barista our name is dragon tomato and that makes me happy for a little while ‘cause for a second, i feel like my own kind of normal. and like it’s ok that i am a fucking weirdo. and like it’s ok that i don’t understand the thoughts zipping through my head.  it’s ok that sometimes, i feel like i’m drifting a thousand feet above the sky and i can’t really hear anything you say as my chest slowly empties out onto the concrete broken eggshells and heartstrings but it’s never enough to drown out my insecurity. and it’s never enough to make me like the feeling of my skin wrapping itself around my body. and it’s never enough to make the hours pass just a little. more. quickly. and the mirror reflects my face back at me and maybe if i could just be different in that kind of cliché way, i wouldn’t feel like the lonely sock you can’t pair with anything. a crappy outfit. rudolph the red-nosed raindeer. like the ugly duckling. like all those fictional characters you rooted for until it wasn’t normal to be cheering.


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i am a house – a poem

im a house

i am a house and you’re gone today. i am a house and i don’t feel sad exactly it’s just i don’t know what to say. i am a house and as my chest hollows itself out i’m sobbing on the couch like if i scream loud enough i’ll be able to just get this feeling out of my system. i am a house and the words rush through me and life always has this way of flying at you way, way too quickly. i am a house but the roof is caving in, and it’s all ending or at least it feels that way. and i know you’re gonna be gone someday. but if i accept that, i’ll also have to accept that nothing is permanent. and i’ll have to accept that someday, everything i love will either be gone or dead inside. and someday we’ll have to watch the light vacuum out of each others’ eyes and still somehow find a way to live with it and do you know how tired i am of all of this? how tired i am of this feeling, like ripping a band-aid off my open wounds, and the best i can do is ignore it. because i am not gonna be stardust. i am gonna be rotting in the ground. and all of this will be meaningless. and i know i am overreacting. it’s just… i am going to be alone someday. and that’s the what i am afraid of, more than anything. i am going to be alone, in the middle of the atlantic ocean and the waves will be 40 feet tall and i still will be panicking as the static between us stretches out to infinity and i still don’t know what to say. i am a house and i made it. i am a house and i did this. i am a house, and i still don’t quite know how to process this. i am a house and maybe someday i’ll know how to hang paintings on the empty walls of my chest but right now, all i want to do is curl up in a ball and try to paint armour on my skin so you don’t touch me because the emotions are red-hot embers burning at my fingers and my lungs overflow and apparently it’s possible to be burning alive or on fire or completely aglow and still feel cold. i don’t want to lose you because i am still not sure what you see in me and right now i am a house and i can only half-handle being alone. i am a house, and please don’t hate me for being like this sometimes. i am a house, and i’m tired of having to be better than i am but i don’t know what i am and i am a house, and i just want to go home.


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i don’t want you to see me

i dont want u to see me

i don’t want you to see me. i don’t want you to see me falling apart inside and building myself back up again because it’s complicated. and i doubt you’d ever get it. and even if you were willing to listen you’d probably misinterpret because everyone misinterprets. i don’t want you to see me, i don’t want you to know the kind of power strangers have over me. i don’t want you to see me, because then you’d probably hate me. i don’t want you to see me and now i want to cry because i honestly thought that one of the things i was good at was honesty. i don’t want you to see me because my poetry comes out like some kind of flash flood or maybe a tsunami and maybe i just have way too many feelings kicking around inside me. i don’t want you to see me because then you’ll realize that i don’t eat the same things that you do, and i don’t watch the same things as i do, and then you’ll probably hate me. i am standing in front you and i think i have blown my flimsy lungs empty but you still don’t understand what i mean. i don’t want you to see me, and i don’t really know how to write poetry. i don’t want you to see me, and i curl up into a tiny little ball of nothing inside but on the outside i’m sure i look fine because it’s always fine because i’m so good at acting i fool myself sometimes. i don’t want you to see me because it’s not simple, and it’s not easy, and why don’t you understand that it’s not easy. i don’t want you to see me because i feel like you’ll leave me me if you realize how much i empathize with the people around me but especially the bad guys i guess because deep down i still feel like maybe broken windows and punching my thighs and screaming and screaming and screaming are all i have in me and it scares me that it’s actually possible to be hated by an entire society. i don’t want you to see me because right now i’m feeling pretty crazy. i don’t want you to see me because my anxiety has me held captive inside my mind but the pain is still not great enough to satisfy the black hole inside me. and i don’t want you to see me, because then i’d have to tell the truth and the truth is too complicated and too crazy. and i don’t want you to see me because my life is stop motion and broken and i want to feel nothing and i want to feel everything and i don’t want you to see me, because i don’t think you understand the atomic-bomb kind of impact even three words can have on me. and i’m not sure i can handle it if you control me. i don’t want you to see me, because i know that this is a choice i am making and all i have to do is pull myself up and out and away and i know that’s possible, so why doesn’t it feel that way?


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