it has to get better

you are the crash. and you are the burn. you are hypnotic blankets, you are the monochrome sun, watching as the world burns.

you are the snap, and the crackle, and the pop. you’re fine one moment and the next… you’re not.

your heart pounds. and you think you’re giving up. you have wanted nothing more in your life than for this. to. stop.

***

i will wake up to the drone of my alarm. and i will lie in bed, for what could be a few minutes. or what could be hours on end.

i will crawl out onto the floor. scroll through my phone, and always leave wanting more.

i will stare in the mirror, maybe just a little dizzy. i will make a mental list, of all the parts of myself i should probably fix. but i’m busy, busy, busy…

so i will put on a nice dress. i will ignore the dying tulips; the wilting rosemary out back. i will stare out the window on the ride to school. and i will do my best not to notice the crack of lighting down my skull. like a discount heart attack.

but it won’t last forever. right? i mean, it has to it has to it has to get better


This piece is very experimental, and maybe a bit weird, but I was in a pretty weird place when I wrote it. (Around mid-September, I think.) I was going through withdrawal symptoms, as I very poorly went off my meds. (Because apparently you shouldn’t just go cold turkey on a medication you’ve been taking for over a year, after halving your dose for two days. Who would have thought?!)

I’ve never experienced side effects, or any kind of withdrawal from medication. So although I knew it was technically a possibility, I didn’t think it would happen to me. But it did. The symptoms lasted about two weeks, but it was one of the hardest, longest, strangest two weeks I’ve ever had.

It plunged me into depression, for most of that time period. I got dizzy whenever I stood up, my mind was slow and sluggish–which absolutely drove me insane–and about every five seconds, these weird zaps went through my whole body–a bit like shivering, but if you shivered in your brain too, and your heart started pounding. Honestly, the scariest thing was that I couldn’t find good information from a medical professional on what I was supposed to do, or when this would stop–and for a while, I didn’t even realize what it was. Even once I did, I was too ashamed to tell anyone for a bit.

I had no idea when it was going to end, if this was messing up my brain long term, and I just felt so out of control. Eventually, I owned up to the fact I had gone off my meds wrong, and asked my mom to talk to a pharmacist, and a few days after that, I started to feel a little bit better.

So, in conclusion kids: do lots of research, talk to your pharmacist before you go off your meds, not just your family doctor on a phone appointment, in which his cell reception was so bad you could only make out every fifth word. (Although, to be safe, you should probably do that too.)

Lots of love,

dragonwritesthings

i hope you win.

oh, you burning child prodigy. with your long, spindly fingers, slamming down on piano keys. an empty auditorium; nights without sleep.

oh, you technicolour fever dream. oh, blemishes and bruises, blooming on my skin. stretch marks and scars; my neverending sin…

oh, you masterpiece in hiding. slowly crumbling to the floor. you desperate atonement, you don’t have to hide anymore.

oh, bonfire girl. oh, shattered violin. you dutiful daughter, you loyal friend, you perfect little nightmare.

i hope you win.

i make a home between the warning signs

the apple tree leaves sway in the breeze. and i want to cry, because it’s been a week since i’ve actually fucking let myself sleep. because i forgot what happy people are supposed to do.

so yeah. maybe i let them get under my skin. let them grovel, and pray. let them barter, and pursue. maybe i did it for the money, but… wouldn’t you?

maybe i let them pull the wool over my eyes; turned over a thousand leaves in my mind. wondering why none of them felt new.

maybe i find myself between the lines. chart it all out in rhythm, and rhyme. i make a home between the warning signs. because… i have to.

close my eyes, and crash into the hillside; a mess of battle wounds. and i beg the sun, in all its might, to make me anew.


I’m sure this poem could be better, but this is all the editing I have time for right now. It’s been a long day–it’s been a long month, honestly. With work, and school, and writing, and basic hygiene/cooking/cleaning, and maintaining a very minimalist social life, there just isn’t much time left over. Some days, I like that–because I thrive off of work. Without something to focus on, my mind just kind of short-circuits.

But at the same time, I get tired, after a while.

And at first, that’s all it is. Tired. It’s lethargy; lying around in bed for half an hour longer than I needed to. It’s sleeping through twelve alarms. It’s crying when I burn onions, or lose the keys or what have you. Sometimes, if I’m lucky, that mild state of depression is all it is ever amounts to. But more often than not, I find myself just feeling… empty. And hopeless. I cry when I read the news, and I think about death all the time. I try to keep up, with the neverending list of things to do, but I just can’t. And without something to focus on, I spiral further and further, until at some point, I panic; because I’ve just spent the past seven hours watching TV, Youtube, or generally frittering my time away, it’s 9pm, and I have a whole day’s worth of work to get through. Which undoubtedly leads into the frenetic typing, the constant working from the moment I wake up to the moment I go to bed; always biting off more than I can chew, and freaking out every time something goes the slightest bit wrong. In this state, I constantly feel guilty; take responsibility for things I didn’t even do. And eventually, I burn out; repeating the cycle all over again.

Every two days, to two weeks, I get maybe at least an hour an at most a day of buffer time. Time, when I’m just okay; when the chemicals in my brain aren’t making everything a struggle. And it’s nice. But it’s not enough.

Sometimes, I see what other people are up to. And, not gonna lie, I get jealous. Because how is it fair, that they can just do these amazing things, that I want so desperately, without this level of fallout as a result? If I didn’t have to spend so much of my life panicking because of a slightly awkward conversation, or crying because it feels like my life is hopeless, what would I be doing right now?

But it’s just hypothetical. Just a fantasy in my head. The reality is–at least for now–this is my life.

I have made a home between the warning signs. Not because I want to–but because right now, I don’t have any other options.

Lots of love,

dragonwritesthings

charybdis

the vicious current of my mind won’t leave me alone. but it’s fine. because the cream-white canvas sail will always be there, to hold me. love me. and promise, as i start to drift off, that i’m gonna be all right.

and it will sing its siren song. tell me it’s gonna be okay. and i’ll be so transfixed; i won’t even notice, as the stars begin to fade…

they told me not to touch the stove. and yet somehow, i find myself, gulping down nuggets of red-hot charcoal. candle wax dripping down my cheeks; nimble matchsticks lighting up my throat.

charybdis is hungry tonight. and you are oh, so gone

barely even putting up a fight at all. as she reels your wayward body in. as the shoreline takes your flimsy skeleton as its own. as your faithful sailboat leaves you high and dry.

and oh, my dear. i can’t believe you’re still surprised!

thicker than water, i suppose

blood really must be thicker than water, i suppose. if it can ooze down the stairs this way. slip into the cracks in the sidewalk, so i don’t notice when it follows me home.

or when slips into the bombshell eyes of the people i used to trust. the people i used to know. and now a thousand spiders find me, in broken promises. and frantic whispers. but when their shining eyes beg silently for help, i will always say no.

and i will ignore the stories. oh, the thousands upon thousands of stories, swimming through my lungs. devouring my shaking body whole.

and i will listen closely, when the butterflies say… oh, little girl, wouldn’t you like to fly? wouldn’t you like to rip up the rotting pages of history, and just rise above it all.

and so i will live vicariously, through telephone poles and long-passed airwaves. leaving behind nothing but crumpled yellow wings, and crimson bloodstains.