a letter to myself for when it feels like there’s nothing else left in the world

trigger warning: suicide mention, self-harm

influenced by shane koyczan. (a little.)

i know. you cried puddles on the kitchen floor, and threw chairs at the door, and your stomach shook from the impact afterwards. didn’t it? didn’t you? and you snapped, and you fell apart, as the sun descended over the horizon, and it felt like it was the end of the world because in that moment you hated yourself more than you hated everything else. didn’t you? and some days, you still don’t know what’s in your head and what’s actually true. but… you also picked yourself up off the ground and winced as you bandaged your bleeding limbs too, because as a kid with mental illness… it’s the kind of thing you learn how to do. and you’ll tell yourself you can’t, and then you will. and you’ll tell yourself it’s too much, and sometimes it is. but somehow, you’ll live to tell the tale that you made it through. and i guess i just wanted to say that for all the times i haven’t said it: i believe in you. i believe that you will make mistakes. i believe that you will hate yourself. and i believe that there will be days when the knife or the pill seem like all you have left. but i also know that you will be given the option to jump, and you won’t. and i know this because i know you. i know you as the girl who made a flower crown and watched the sun set, and for a moment, forgot about that anything else existed. the girl who grew herself gardens through the garbage. who cried into the sun, until the tears made the whole ocean. i know you as the person i am growing to love, and accept, even though i have grown up hating myself. even though honestly, half the time, i still do. even though my head is some kind of shattered window, and my lungs malfunction… i know you. and i just want to let you know. that even if it’s fifty years right now… someday, we’ll get a little bit closer to looking in the mirror and finally being able to tell the reflection i’m doing all right, thank you. and i don’t know how long that’s going to take get there. maybe a whole lifetime. but we will get there. i promise you.


this started out as a really sad vent poem i came up with while i was walking titled, for obvious reasons, “didn’t you?” and to be honest, i don’t know how it turned into something else. but it did, somehow. but this happened. i might turn it into a spoken word sometime soon, if i feel up to it? i found some really good royalty-free music for it, and i’m starting to get into spoken word again.


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treadmill

you see, i am a warrior. you see, i am on a treadmill. you see, when i look in the mirror i want to punch myself and that means faster. and faster. and faster. and you lazy asshole, didn’t you hear me when i said go faster. didn’t you hear me when i said you don’t have time to laugh. don’t have time to love. don’t have time to grow up. and how you feel about this is kind of irrelevant. because eventually, it’ll all be over. and because my head is swimming with sharks, and because i have fucking social anxiety. and by social anxiety, i mean i will stay up all night rather than risk the slightest bit of anger. and because setting boundaries and sleeping at decent times is so yesterday, all right? because you see, i am on a treadmill. and every time i take a step, it just keeps getting faster, and faster, and faster. and every time i hold my breath, i just keep sinking faster, and faster. pounding, and the flicker of pages as i skim-read harry potter. and it all just keeps spinning, and spinning, and spinning. faster and faster. you see, i am a warrior. you see, apparently i have a future. a future i’d die for.


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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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rag doll

trigger warning: insecurity, exhaustion, swearing, use of “chemical gunshots” as a metaphor, suicidal thoughts

i mould paper flowers out of the long lists of things i feel for you, and i carve my poetry to nothing because that’s what i’m supposed to do. and i’m hoping i’m good enough for you. and i’m so tired it feels like my eyes are made of lead and my skull is collapsing mostly because i’m scared of you leaving. as i fall asleep i think maybe we are all stars, and planets, band-aids and patched up messes. you could say that i’m not really thinking clearly. you could say it’s all a scattered mess of fallen leaves and broken heartstrings and it’s never going to get better and i might even believe you because i can’t imagine my life stretching out longer than it already has and for some reason that idea makes my nauseous and it’s all such a mess and it’s all so large and writing about being happy is really goddamn hard. and it’s all spinning. and it could just be midnight but i think everything is relative, as in everything is dependent, and if everything is dependent how do i know what the truth is? and how can i do anything knowing my future self will hate me for it just because in hindsight all the awkward lines and inevitable mistakes and things i shouldn’t have said highlight themselves over and over again. neon red. my vision is blurring and the headache presses in and i’m trying to care so i shove myself off cliffs like as long as the wind is rushing through my hair nothing will ever be complicated again. i’m shattered glass on windowsills. i’m dressing myself up in business suits and prom dresses printing out credit cards so i can buy my way into the future and it doesn’t matter if i go into debt because my brain can’t even process the present yet but did i tell you that of late did i’m soft blankets and the crickets at midnight and oceans of tears and the words expecto patronum and the gilded frames of finished poems. and i’m lying awake late at night, and it’s just i’m having trouble getting this through my brain. because i’m still only half-sure how to use my broken heart as a band-aid.


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