bird in october

trigger warning: suicidal thoughts

i want to be a bird in october. i want to dip, and dive, and laugh my way through the sky. i want to be free of all this. i want to be made of light. and i want to hold your hand, and laugh, and cry, and does that mean the only way to be happy is to die? which is stupid, because the only way to be happy is not to die. and for the last time: dear me, suicide is the opposite of a solution to your problems, all right? i want to be a bird in october. i want to be crisp air, and red leaves, and the sky melting on your shoulders. or a skating rink, when they put christmas lights up in winter, and we go around and around and around in circles until nothing matters anymore. i want to be free. of all of this. of the heavy weight of sleep-deprivation and self-hatred constantly chasing each other around in my chest. i want to remember what it felt like, that time we stayed up so late looking at the stars, bathing in the cold air and the distant city lights. i want to fly and not feel the weight of my history like a deadweight, constantly right here behind me. i want to laugh and not be doing it out of anxiety. i just… i want to be happy


if you need to talk to anyone about what you’re going through, no matter how large or small it is, find a crisis line in your area here. self-harm or suicide are never the answers even if it might seem that way. please hang in there.


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a recurring issue of mine

thoughts shift in and out focus / and i can’t quite make my mind understand this and i’m so tired / but it’s 1a.m. and i miss you for no apparent reason / and i’m getting sick again / but what does it matter because in general i think i’m just a fucking sick person / and my eyes slam closed / and closed / and then open / and everything is broken / and the words shift out / and out / and then into focus / and i keep writing / and i keep going / because i have to do this / i have to do this now / i have to get this over with / and i have to keep spinning like a broken record / and keep going / keep going keep going / and nothing makes sense / but everything makes sense / and / nothing is beautiful / but everything is beautiful / and maybe that’s the issue / and maybe that’s why / i just want to stop these thoughts / and stop these feelings / so i can breathe / or something / and get it off me / get it off me / get it off me / make it stop / flick every single light in this room / off / off / off me / and make my mind get / off / off / off me / and make me not feel like an alien in my own body / off / off / off  me / and where / is / my / gravity?


sleep is tough for me. i’m just gonna shove this here in case someone reading this needs it–if you need to talk to anybody, no matter what you’re going there, find a crisis line in your area here.


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another silent monday night mostly just spent running from my mind

because as we previously established, live radio is the only known cure for the endless ache of my loneliness. and because if you clean your room for the first time in years, and try your hardest not to think about the future, and learn how to make a latte, and read the better half of harry potter and the goblet of fire, maybe that will somehow make this easier. and if you count to ten, maybe you’ll stop feeling what you feel. maybe nothing will be real. and is that really too much to ask? because sometimes, the weight of the memory slams into me, and i am collapsing under the weight of all… these… feelings. because i just keep tracing back my history, trying to find the one moment when all of this started. and i’ll try to plot it on a map and chart it. but… i never can figure it out. when the first fissure hit my skull. when everything kind of… fell apart. a little bit. or maybe i’m just being silly about this. just telling myself pretty stories to fill the void in my chest. and maybe the fairytales i made up in my head were only ever supposed to act as substitutes for real friends. and maybe i will always feel alone, even now i do have real friends. and so i will clean out my room, and schedule instagram posts, or some other relatively pointless task. as the wind whistles through my head. as the fault lines clatter through my head. as the night wears on. and i am one massive, eroding riverbed. and no matter how much i try to run from it… i don’t know if i’ll ever escape that.


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i am sick

faux smiles. cinnamon. and pretending the stars. and i hold my breath, and plug my nose, and my heart pounds as i start to shut down, because you know perfectly well that i can’t handle this right now. because i am sick. and because the painful memories turn to lightning strikes and power outages. and because where you see a window, i see a ledge. and a ledge means jumping, and jumping means falling, and falling means the end… and i am sick. because in this moment, my mind has never felt more broken. and i will read an entire 600-page book in one day, and my head will blur like the ocean, and i just want to forget for a moment. forget that i am sick. forget that i don’t get it. forget that i am a puzzle with half of the pieces thrown in the garbage, and maybe my whole life will just be spent trying to track those pieces down so finally, i will make sense. and maybe that’s all we ever do in the first place. because i am sick. and i am tired. and i don’t want to think about it.


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i lie awake at night and all i can do is hate my body

trigger warning: self-harm, suicidal thoughts, weight-related issues. if you need to talk to anyone about whatever you’re going through, find a crisis line in your area by clicking on the word here.

i lie awake at night, sometimes. and all i can do is hate the way i’m trapped inside my mind. and think about the future. and think about how much i hate my body just for not. being. tiny. and hate my head, for not working right. because i just wish i could magic away these bones, sometimes. i lie awake and i can imagine what it would feel like. to die. and i guess i’m addicted to the idea of that. because i just want the sky to stop collapsing for a second. just want to not feel the weight of my self-hatred crushing my skull only to remould it all over again, only no matter how many times i make myself anew it’s never perfect, like i need it to be perfect, because i will hate myself until i’m perfect— i lie awake at night, and it’s like 1a.m., and god i just need to go to sleep, and try my best to forget. forget. forget. because at this exact moment, if there was a potion i could take to wipe everything away, maybe i would take it. maybe i would wish myself dead. and this isn’t how i always am. it’s just… right now, i’m a fucking mess. right now, i am looking in the mirror and if i could rip myself apart i’m telling you. i’d do it. i’d remould this fucked up head and this fucked up body, and i would be better. i would be better. i would be better. i would gently carve the knife across my skin, and focus on the pain until everything else just kind of disappeared, only this time not forever. i would be better—only i wouldn’t. i wouldn’t be better. because self-harm does not make you better. because drinking poison for the 56th time does not make you better. because… i can’t change my body. but i can change how i treat it. but right now i just… i don’t know how to do that.


i just came down with a cold/fever thing, so being productive has been pretty hard, since all my body wants to do right now is spend the entire day flopped like a slug on the couch watching mindless tv or rereading my favourite books or taking a nap something, but somehow i managed to edit these poems! if you missed it, check out the new youtube video i just posted by clicking on the word here, i’m super proud of it.


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