again again again

trigger warning: self-harm. whatever you’re going through, if you need to talk to anyone, you’re not alone, you’re not crazy, and there is help out there. find a crisis line in your area by clicking on the word here.

bleeding fingers, leaving smudges on the keyboard and i’m sorry. i know i promised you i wouldn’t hurt myself, it’s just sometimes it’s fucking hard, okay? and sometimes, i spend the whole night on stupid websites, pretending i’m fine, when i am not fine, and pretending i’m keeping up with my work when i’m not keeping up with my work. and pretending i’m keeping up with this world. when i’m not keeping up with this world. and i’m sorry, my dear, broken, body. i’m sorry there’s a demon inside me. i’m sorry i romanticize my own illness. i’m sorry i can’t breathe. i’m sorry i’m numb on the kitchen floor, because you weren’t supposed to leave. and i’m sorry, for hurting myself. and i’m sorry for not sleeping. and i’m sorry for hating you. it’s just once you get started, it’s so hard to stop it. and my fingers are bleeding over the fucking keyboard. and i’m not crazy. i’m just… a little bit messy. and just a little bit broken. and just a little bit of the remnants of glass, destroying my fingertips, scratching at your cheeks, and scratching at your ankles, and slicing at your knees. and it’s not what it looks like. i swear. and i swear, i’ll be all right someday. and i swear it’s going to get better, or whatever will make you stop looking at me like a half-finished calamity, because  i just need you to tell me you want me here. i need you to tell me you actually care. and hold my hands back, so i don’t pick at every forming scab, until my fingers bleed over the keyboard. until i cry in my closet, listening to angry music hoping that will make it better. and i text you, but you still don’t answer. and i will tell you i love you back. and i will tell you i need you here. and maybe, maybe, maybe someday we can get through this together.


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it is time to read books that are not about dying

i don’t know what i’m doing. it’s 11p.m. and i’m up late writing for the seventh time this week waiting for my eyelids to slam closed like my head is really just a prison. because i’m nothing to you at this time of night and i guess that’s what appeals to me more than anything. i don’t know what i’m doing and is that all right? i don’t know how to do this. i’m long past this deadline but i don’t know what i’m supposed to write to make the world seem brighter because the words assemble soldiers on  my tongue and then evaporate the second i reach for them. it’s time to read books that are not about dying, but i don’t know how to be someone beyond my mind because no matter how hard i try to pull and stretch my memory like silly putty, i can’t remember a time when it was simple. and happy. i don’t know how to get over you because the honest truth is, i’ve never gotten over anybody. it is time to read books that are not about dying because god, it’s getting sickening. because this isn’t something i’m choosing. no. choosing is when you know what your options are. choosing is being presented with a menu in your fluent language and told to order. but… every menu in my mind keeps flashing on off on off on off neon lights overloaded hard drive what i’m trying to say is, i don’t know what it means to be ok. i don’t know what it means to completely trust somebody. i don’t know what it means to be held in your arms without the slightest tinge of fear you’ll slip away. and on the good days i am flying i am flying i am flying i am so much more than all right. but on the bad days, i barely feel like a human being anyway. it is time to read books that are not about dying, but i’m watching you walk in slow motion and i don’t understand half the words you’re saying and i guess this is how i’ve gotten pretty good at vague responses and lip reading. i’m six years old inside and maybe i always will be, but i guess there are worst things to be. fingers attacking skin slowly pulling myself like a rag doll apart from the seams again. mental breakdown on the couch because i have to take a picture of myself but i don’t want to see. i don’t want to see. i spend the whole afternoon taking pictures anyway, trying not to scream at the idea of being seen crumpled like a paper airplane on the driveway. i don’t want to see. and sometimes, the bravest thing i do all day is look anyway.


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