august 15th, 2019

there’s a certain way the stars look, when you’re crying in your backyard at 10 o’clock at night because everything is broken, and because i’m falling, and because you don’t understand, and because the sky is blue, and because you’re dying. and because there’s a way that it feels to laugh and cry and slide into tired nothingness, all at the same time. and there’s a way to love you so much my heart breaks in two. a way to love you, so much i can’t handle even being in the same room as you. and there’s a way your eyes feel, after you’ve spent half of today crying and the other half dying inside. and if i were sick in a way people actually understood, maybe i wouldn’t be hiding under the stars trying my hardest to conceal the deepest battle scars. and maybe i wouldn’t have to hate myself under your arms, because everything is spinning. and because it was so stupid, and because i don’t know how to process any of this. and because there’s a way your mind looks when you realize how fucked up it is. and when you realize how sick you are. and when you realize how recovered you are. and when you realize how empty your eyes are. and when the whole world is spinning out of control as you stare up with tears in your eyes at the stars. and when you’re on stage, but your hands are shaking, and your voice wobbles, and you just want to run away. and when your mouth hangs open, and your heart starts to race, and your stomach starts to tear itself apart, and you pinch yourself to stop the pain, and you said it all wrong again, and the floor drops out beneath your feet, and the wind whistles in your hair and you don’t know what to say…


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swallow

trigger warning: self-harm. if you need to talk to anyone about whatever you’re going through, find a crisis line in your area here.

so i’m talking to my therapist. in the kind of way, where i’m just barely holding back the tears because i can feel them. rising like a tsunami in my chest. and i will try to swallow back the ocean. i will try. but i probably won’t be very good at it. and so i’m talking to my therapist. and she asks me why i do this. and so i swallow back the pain, bubbling like lava inside my brain. and so i’m talking to my therapist, and she tells me i need to stop tearing myself to pieces. and so i’m crying on the couch, because i’m fucking tired, and i just wish i could make everything stop for a second. and so i hold the knife to my skin, and i wish i could cut myself. or punch myself. or hate myself enough to snuff every feeling in my chest out, out, out. but honestly, i’m too exhausted to do anything right now. and so i swallow back the pain. and so i’m talking to my therapist, and it’s just hard to tell her. about this. this mess in my head. this empty part of me, that refuses to believe anything she’s ever said. and i’m so fucking exhausted, is all. and i know this is weird for me, but right now, i don’t want to be heard. or seen. or felt. or known. because the thoughts whip through me, like the kind of trains that just want to get away from home. and i’ll fold this poem,  for a while. live inside it. and pretend it’s some kind of hideaway that i can stay behind in, all on my own. and i’ll lie awake all night. and the rain will pound. and i’m supposed to be stronger than this. because i’m supposed to be better than this. because i’m supposed to be more than this… and the tears will dribble down my cheeks. and i will stand at the edge. and i will not have the heart anymore. to hate myself enough to keep doing this.


august has been really hard for me, in a lot of ways. i thought i was getting better, and for a while, my mental health really was improving. summer is always tough for me; i always jokingly refer to it as “mental breakdown season.” and i thought, for a while, that i was actually making progress. although i’m starting to pick myself back up again, the last couple weeks have been really rough for me. so although i’m starting to do better now, it feels like it’s been forever since my mind hasn’t been heavy this way. i wrote this poem a couple weeks ago, and then revised it to post up on the blog.


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grown up

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it’s just… sometimes, it just feels like i’ll only ever be worthwhile if i’m normal. and by normal, i mean perfect. and by perfect, i mean grown up. grown up like i can handle this myself grown up like grinding myself down to nothing and today is the kind of day where i hate myself but i hate myself less with coffee so therefore that has to mean that mental illness isn’t even a fucking thing. and that has to mean that you should just grow up, because everyone else has love. and why the fuck are you like this?  and just please stop and don’t feel like you’re drowning in other people’s emotions, because god we just have too many emotions. and coffee tastes like insomnia, and insomnia tastes like productivity, and productivity tastes like hope, and 1a.m. smells like solitude and solitude means no one can control me. which is ironic, given the fact that i am controlled by my anxiety. and maybe i’ve only ever told myself that this is all i’m worth.  late nights and treating my mind like a machine and it’s all ok as long as i can just pump out more poetry, and more stories, and more poetry. and it’s nearly midnight. and what i’m trying to say is i’m tired of chiselling myself to nothing and wondering why i feel empty all the time.


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