july 20th, 2019

july 20, 2019(1)

and i guess it’s been a long time since i’ve been alone this way. since i’ve been surrounded by the sound of myself and nothing else to distract me, because automated birdsong doesn’t sound the same as the reality. and because checking your notifications twenty times a day is never enough to lift my thoughts off my chest and away, away, away. and so i’ll try to swim through all the broken pieces despite my instinct to flinch away, away, away from the evidence. and i’ll try not to feel like i’m lying through my teeth when i call myself a superhero, or a queen, or a princess, or whatever title will give me control over myself, because it’s been a long time since i’ve felt like that’s true, i guess. because i am home alone and drowning out my head to replace company because i’m tired and you’re gone and i don’t know who else to be. because i can’t handle this space in my chest, where sometimes, really late at night, the monsters like to howl. like they’re calling out for every single one of their broken pieces. like they’re calling out for you to come back. come back. come back. and tell me you love me. and tell me you won’t forget me. and tell me you need me. and tell me you’ll never leave me, but this time it’s actually true. but this time you make me laugh, and you wrap me up in blankets, and you watch movies with me in your arms, and you tell me how the fuck i’m supposed to fill up this empty space in my chest where you used to be before something about you left.


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july 19th, 2019

july 19th, 2019(1)

and the stars glimmer on the horizon. we spend most of the day watching a series of unfortunate events on netlfix and discussing cults and taking turns reading each other fanfiction. on the roof. and i close my eyes. and let the air rush over me. and it’s probably not safe, which is the point, because it’s silent, and you can hear the birds, screaming, and it’s 1a.m. and i tell you to sleep but i’ll stay awake long enough for you to read the first chapter you’ve been writing all night to me, because being sleepless is different when you’re tangled up in a blanket on someone’s bedroom floor because there is no damage that cannot be undone by sleeping in until ten a.m. beside someone. and the sun rises. and i think the therapy is helping, because for the first time in a long time, i’m not afraid of being alone, and i’m not exhausted, and my head feels new again. because we’re laughing on our stomach and we’re drinking tea, and we’re cuddling cats. and i’m reading you fanfiction at 1a.m, and i don’t even think it’s helping but i do it anyway. because the words taste nice on my tongue. because for a while, i don’t feel like a bad friend. or a bad person. and my mind can’t hurt me because if you start tossing and turning in your sleep i’ll be there to battle the nightmares away. and i think i trust you to do the same for me. because i think at this point, you know a good half of me, and that’s more than most people ever see. because i think i have trust issues, but in the acoustic guitar and the dreaming crackles of your speakers, it all sort of disappears. because we’re friends. and that means we can build a little bubble of time where we can be kids for a while. and that means that for one perfect second, talking about our emotions at 1a.m., i feel like a miracle.


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overcast

overcast(1)(1)

my head is like an overcast day. as in, the edges of the panic. slowly, slowly, slowly creeping in just like the fog is. as in, i can breathe, but only by a little bit. my head is an overcast day. like… self-sabotaging and not sleeping at very reasonable times today. my head is an overcast day, and i will bury myself in the blankets again. and i will try and fall into the nothingness again. and some days i think i am broken and some days i actually am and it’s never as bad as it seems in reality, but that might just be the painkiller kicking in anyway. anyway. my head is like an overcast day because i’m underslept and i feel like shit, but for some twisted reason i keep on going anyway. and my head is spinning, and spinning, and spinning. and i don’t know. what’s happening. and i don’t know why this is happening. except i do. i know that i’ve been tearing myself apart from the inside for a long time, and that most days i don’t even feel like stopping. i know that i write and i write and i write and then i bury myself under the blankets and try my hardest to keep hiding. i know everything is changing. and i know, i know, i know. and please don’t come up to me. don’t make me say hello. don’t ask me anything because whatever you want to say i don’t fucking know.


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dear instagram

dear instagram, my life is not copyrighted to anyone but me. this is my heart. this is my head. i get to choose what i share about it. my life is my life,  and i am free of what anyone else thinks about it. my moments are not something you can commercialize. my moments are not yours to demolish. this is my heart. and this is my life. and i’m trying, and right now i’m not doing too great, but… i’m trying. and i’m just tired of needing people who will never love me to love me. love me. just love me… and i’m tired of waiting. i’m tired of begging. i’m tired of being the one on my knees. the one who needs, and needs, and needs. the one who coats her personality in overcast days and false sun rays because then it’ll all seem normal, right? is this better? dear instagram, please stop making me feel like my writing has to be a certain way. like my mind has to be a certain way. like the way i see the world has to fit neatly inside a culture, stereotype or cliché. dear instagram, i am not doing this because i want to, i am doing this because i feel like i have to. i am doing this because i want people to notice me. i am doing this because i want a megaphone for my poetry and i’ll put up with it i guess. if i have to. dear instagram, my mind is fucked up enough as is. please stop, all right? just, please. stop. because life is complicated. more complicated than any picture can encompass. because i guess i’ve been in this place for a long, long time. the place where i am tucking the blankets in tighter and tighter, because i’m six years old. and in reality, there’s only bits of dust and some darkness, but in my head, there are monsters, tearing slowly through the mattress, and they’re trying to eat me, and they’re hungry… but in reality, nothing’s happening. and i bleed. and i try. and eventually, i end up cast out on the street corner, every single time. because when i was eleven, i remember thinking that all i wanted in a guy was someone who would love me back. remember thinking that was romantic. when that is not romantic. and i know who i am. it’s just… hard sometimes. to take a deep breath. close my eyes. open my eyes. and not just wince at the sight of it. because i want this to be about more than pretending. i want this to be the first healthy friendship i have ever had. i want this to be the start of a better kind of story. not the rosy kind. not the kind with rose-tinted glasses and smiley faces. not the kind of story that doesn’t know pain. the kind of story that cries on each other’s shoulders. the kind that gives you pep talks when you just want to bury yourself in blankets and stop being alive. the kind that lights up when it sees you and spins you around in circles until you’re about to colllapse. the kind that stays. the kind that loves. dear instagram, i don’t need you to tell me how to be who i am.


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promise

Add a heading(1)promise myself i’ll practice. as in, promise myself i’ll stitch my broken heartstrings back together and make them into something like a tapestry. something coherent. something that will make others marvel at its beauty.  promise myself i’ll do this. promise i’ll get to it tomorrow. because i need to get to it tomorrow. because i need to stop being afraid by tomorrow, because by tomorrow, everything will have changed but god, did you think anyone would care about what it’s like inside your echoing bombshell of a brain? because there are people who have it worse than i do, and maybe i am just another piece of shrapnel cast away from the scene of the crime. promise myself i’ll fight. promise myself tomorrow i’ll wake up and i will climb up from the abyss and i will pretend to be all right. but i will not be all right. i will not know what i mean anymore when i write poetry because i know that it’s something but i’m not sure what it is. and i guess i’m still a little scared of letting this feeling out when i’m not sure what this monster even is, but it’s mine, and doesn’t that mean it’s my responsibility to make sure it doesn’t hurt anyone other than myself this time? and i’m not sure what’s true and what’s just my head. but i’m afraid to look at myself in the mirror because i can’t stand the fact that i still can’t fix my head. that i’m still the kind of client my therapist has to convince their life is worth it. that i’m the kid, curled up in the back of the class, getting perfect grades. faking a smile. pretending they understand the better half of this. pretending they’re all right. pretending they’re all right because if i tell you, i’ll have to tell myself too. and i’m standing at the edge and i know someday, i’m going to do this. someday, i’m going to become everything i thought i never could be and i’m going to make something from the ashes. i’m just scared it won’t be beautiful.


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