cold

trigger warning: suicidal thoughts mention. need to talk to anyone? crisis lines are here.

numb hands, and a heavy head. and i know it’s a mental illness, but it’s still in my control and i still should have fixed it.

i should have been better. should have been perfect. not frozen numb on the inside, hands in my pockets as i realize that loneliness does not discriminate based on circumstance. and that even when i’m surrounded by the people who love me most, i will still fall asleep, and my mind will still feel like stone.

and sometimes when i cry, i feel like i’m six years old. and my mom tells me to stop. my mom tells me it’s not your time to go and how can thoughts of suicide at such a young age have somehow felt so normal?

so for all of the times when the lonely felt like permafrost seeping through me. when i was defined by these aching concrete bones. i am not alone.

there is love out there. there is something like a small beam of hope, and i won’t say it’ll go away forever. but there’s more to life than feeling this cold.

and you know you brought yourself back to life from the brink of oblivion, right? you rubbed your hands together. you smashed sunlight into sparks and somehow lit a fire. you wrote yourself a home. 

and it’s gonna be ok. believe me. i’d know.


Check out the spoken word version here.

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recovery

i am healing. i am stitching myself together, piece by piece. i am broken glass and ruined tapestries, and a childhood stolen away from me. 

i am the first step forward. i am shaking hands holding the bandage over the bleeding wound of my past. i am gritting my teeth through the pain, and somehow finding courage.

i am a flower growing through the heaps of garbage. i am a ray of sun in the middle of a snowstorm. i am melting ice, and the feeling of loving arms.

i am battle scars. i am every day just trying to make it through to the end and still feel like i can live with myself.  i think this time i can live with myself.

live with knowing… that i will always be a little broken. that i will cry some days, and it will feel like the world is ending. and i will just want to stop caring. stop trying. but i won’t.

i made it this far for a reason. i am improving. i am getting better, even if i’m only healing slowly. 

and maybe someday, i really will be able to say i’m in recovery.  


My therapist thinks I’m stable enough to switch to once-every-two-weeks sessions, despite how much I’m going through right now, and to be honest, I’m terrified of how that might affect me. But I’m also hopeful. Because… maybe that means I’m getting better. 

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stardust

sweaters and night air and distant traffic, and maybe if i try hard enough i’ll find some way of romanticizing it.

eyes half closed. downing another cup of coffee, and pinching my forearm, and hiding in the 12a.m. darkness.

and what does it say about me? that even after all this time, i’m still trying to figure out what’s an illness and what’s just my personality?

i hope this is not my personality. but at the same time, the idea of being separate from it… it terrifies me. because i don’t know who that person is. because i don’t know where i could fly if i could let go of even a fraction of the weight of it.

and on nights like this, i would like to think i am made of stardust. i am wind in your hair and campfires by the ocean, or anything that makes me feel like i’m not hopeless.

i am not the end of the world. i am not panic, or fear, or the deadweight of loneliness.

i am the sunrise. staring back at me in the mirror. because for all the times you were blind to it, the beauty has been there. just waiting for you to notice.

always.


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borrowed time

it just feels like i’m standing at the edge of the world tonight. taking deep breaths through shallow lungs and trying to think clearly through a mind that refuses to function.

and somehow i’ve held on through all the highs and lows, but it doesn’t really matter, because in the end i’m still going to end up alone.

because it’s written in neon lights, and i can’t read the signs, and maybe if it’s this hard i shouldn’t even try. and then i’m shutting down. and then i’m on the floor, with my hands over my eyes, and it doesn’t really matter what’s happening, because right now nothing feels like real life.

and is this really real life? because i can’t make sense of it. can’t slip it into order, and pretend it’s all right.

and i always come back to this place in the end. to pushing you away accidentally, and overthinking everything, and just wanting to sleep but never sleeping, and wanting to leave but not saying anything, and here i am again. writing poetry, while i hide in the locker bay. pretending, that i’m the only one who feels this way.


For a little bit of explanation, the locker bay where I go to school is usually empty in the middle of the block, so whenever I have a panic attack in class I usually go there to calm down, since for some weird reason it feels like one of the most private places on the campus.

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