november 29, 2019

it’s been a long time since i’ve been alone like this. since the monsters have shouted in my head with no competition, and i have closed my eyes, and just… let it all happen.

it’s been a long time since i’ve disintegrated like this. stared at a blinking cursor all morning, trying and failing to convince myself to do something. anything. even if it won’t be perfect. you made a to-do list for a reason, and wasting time isn’t on it.

and my hands are going numb. and the earth is starting to spin. and for all the times i’ve glorified my suffering i hate having to feel like this. 

and i should be getting back soon. should be going faster, because i have shit to get done. but… that would mean facing myself. and owning up to who i am. and admitting that i’ve got problems. that there’s a hole in my chest i need to do something about.

but if i acknowledge that there’s a problem… i don’t know if i’ll be able to live with myself.


Being alone is weird for me. It’s not a bad thing, exactly–just really strange. I wrote this while I was home alone at night, and just… had a lot of thoughts going through my head. Anyway, check out the spoken word version of this poem here, and I hope it meant something to you all. ❤

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october 28th, 2019

this is the perfect time to stop answering my text messages. as i’m clawing myself out of quicksand. screaming for someone to help. but no matter how hard they try, no one can save me from myself. 

because i’d rather be sad and alone than out of control. rather be respected for a lie than infantilized for a truth buried deep. down. inside.

so call the lightning bolts a show of nature. ignore the cities burning down across my cheeks. let me cry in the corner and please just ignore me. i’m begging you to ignore me.

because i never asked for you to love me. and if this is how you care about me than maybe i don’t want you to care about me.

maybe i was right all along. maybe i’m just… one of those people who’s made to be lonely.


I’ve been really struggling with cutting myself off of late. I’m normally not that kind of person, like I’ve probably said in earlier posts–communication is one of my strong suits, so it’s weird to be struggling so much with it. This was written and shoved in my queue ages ago, probably around the date the title says, but even a month after having probably written it, this still hits really close to home for me. 

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pretending it’s a happy ending, or something like that

that feeling, after a therapy session, when for a couple hours, mental illness is just this vague little iceberg off in the distance. high heels and pop music and positive quotes and let’s just pretend nothing’s happened.

that feeling. slightly plastic. and you know it’s going to shatter, so just you wait for it. get black lipstick and waste your parents’ money and learn how to wear it, because maybe makeup can feel like normalcy. or something like that.

drown your thoughts in the flicker of the screen light for hours on end. because that’s easier than feeling anything at the moment.

today you saw the psychiatrist. you tried to pretend that mental illness was something pretty, or cute, because maybe that makes it easier to live with. and yeah, i admit it. i do that to myself. all the time, actually, to be honest.

and i know it seems like everything is going great on the outside. but when this is your life. when this monster is what you have to sleep beside… it just doesn’t feel that way, all right?

this isn’t a happy ending. i’m not okay. i’m not anywhere near okay. right now, it doesn’t even feel like i’m getting better. 

i don’t know who i am anymore.


Of late, numbness and burying my feelings, in general, have been… on my mind. I don’t know–of late, I’ve just been feeling really tired. I can get through the day, I can do everything I expect of myself, even maybe exceed those expectations some days. But once I’m done that to-do list? I just want to sleep. Or read, or hang out with friends–anything but being alone in my head. I don’t even know what I’m so scared of. It’s kind of ridiculous. But of late, I’ve just been feeling… really tired, of all of this. Not in a suicidal kind of way. Just in that kind of way where you wish you could make time stop, and you could close your eyes, and fall asleep, and just kind of… disappear for a while. Does that make sense?

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october 18th, 2019

trigger warning: self-harm, general heavy topics

i can’t stop doing it.

until there are battlefields all across my skin, as i reopen another little wound yet again, and somehow… don’t really feel anything about it. because it’s normal to take out your fears on your body, isn’t it?

every time i see myself in the mirror, i want to shatter the glass. so maybe you can understand why right now, i don’t want help. i just want you to look away, and pretend i don’t exist.

because i won’t be good enough for the monster in my head until i don’t exist. because i have to tear myself down, bit. by. bit. until there’s nothing left but a ruined statue, or a tragedy, or whatever it was you wanted.

 and it’s so close to normal, until it isn’t any longer. and i’m so close to fine, until… i don’t know how to stop myself anymore. 


I know I trigger warning’d this poem with self-harm, the best term I could think of, but that’s not really what this is about, I think. I don’t know, it feels more complex than that. So here’s the whole story. For a long time, I’ve struggled with picking at my skin–opening little wounds, again and again, as a way of dealing with anxiety, Scratching at myself. Demolishing my cuticles, tearing off little bits of skin without even realizing it. Compulsively fiddling with a wound when I get nervous. I don’t know what that is, I don’t have a diagnosis or any way to categorize it, but I do know that I struggle with it. It’s one of those things I don’t really know how to talk about–partially just because when you’ve been doing something so long, and especially since a young age… well, you learn to normalize it. You forget… that other people don’t live like this. So decided to write about it. Just a little bit. Even in the kind of quiet way I doubt most people reading this will pick up on.

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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