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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i am trying to make you happy

trigger warning: insecurity, social anxiety

i am trying to make you happy. i think i do a pretty bad job at this, but it could just be my anxiety. because my anxiety is like a news reporter, twisting milk spills into catastrophes, whispering a constant rush of both dark & terrifying things. & i’m not going to go into detail, but i am going to say that it is constant and paralyzing & it is difficult to look at my hands without thinking about the things they could destroy. i am going to say that i just want to be beautiful when i look in the mirror, because i think it would make you happy, and i don’t know if that’s true or not, but. i like the idea, of being pretty. like the idea of all the broken pieces finally fitting together, perfectly. and sometimes the hardest part is knowing that none of this, no matter how hard i try, is ever going to be perfect, and that feels impossible to accept for me. and i’m trying to make you happy, but god everything they’ve ever said about me is burning tattoos into my skin, and the words feel like bullets going right in, and i don’t know how to be numb to it when you told me not to be numb to it, and the dot dot dot of your train of thought seems to go on endlessly, and i can’t breathe, and i can’t really think clearly but i do know that i need your hand to accompany me because when i’m with you i don’t have to think about my anxiety, and i’m falling apart piece by piece my skin flaking away i’m falling apart so i can mold myself into something politically correct & appealing. & my brain is a lightbulb, and it’s clicking off again. and i’m in the dark again. and i’m trying to feed myself silence for medicine. but i’m having trouble ironing out my brain, and i know this isn’t how you be a good friend. but i’m trying to make you happy, and i want to make you happy, and i want to make you love me so you’ll fill the empty space inside me where trusting other people and feeling safe inside my skin should be and i’m not really sure what i’m doing but you have me your heart and you told me. and in other people’s poetry, they talk about calmness. they talk about the kind of conviction that makes you forget anything outside. but my anxiety, it doesn’t let me feel those things. and i don’t think you understand that insecurity should be a disease, because it’s killing me. and because i feel like a ghost most days, like my skin is see through, and maybe that’s why sometimes there are earthquakes, and the reason i throw my arms around you and cling really tight for no real reason sometimes is because i’m having trouble thinking clearly and it helps to be near you because i love you and i need to focus on something happy and how did i let my brain hurt every part of me and leave seeds of self-hatred in even my happy and there are a thousand fragmented thoughts running through my brain and i’m not sure if it’s called depression when you watch yourself from above and you curl up into a ball and look away and you think about death and nothing matters some days but i don’t care what you call it because it’s all really fucking complicated and my eyes slip closed, and i don’t know what i’m doing or why through all the shit you think i’m still worth knowing, but all this mess of a poem is trying to say is is it ok if i disagree with you? because i half love and half hate the fact that i care about you enough that i know i’m going to.


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angsty poem #551

trigger warning: self-harm, suicidal thoughts, anxiety, mental illness, anger at family/figures of authority, hopelessness/ feelings of depression

have you ever tried to alphabetize your pain like when you were done you’d be able to understand the stuff that goes down inside your brain? because the thoughts are whipping through me and she thinks i’m doing all right and i don’t know how to let you down without being depressing ‘cause even when i’m happy i’m falling and i’m sitting here waiting for you to call me because if it’s you who calls me it’ll be all right and if it’s you who’s in control i won’t have to hate myself for wanting to be in control sometimes and caring too much and caring too little and if i’m like you will you love me oh wait but there’s always something wrong with me and the more i think about it the less sense it makes because everything is foggy and my brain is wired wrongly and sometimes i can’t take the weight of the twisting feelings a monster rising up inside me and i can’t think clearly without the music pounding the thoughts out of me. and what they don’t understand is that when i punch myself it’s because words didn’t work and neither did standing and neither did screaming and i need someone to listen to me. i need to make sense of the chaos and i need to get this out of me. and if you won’t let me breathe then am i still allowed to breathe and if i hate myself is it ok to need you to love me? and if i don’t know who i am, is it ok to be your property? and is this really my life is this really my life and is it ok that sometimes i google ways i could die and stand at the edge until the numbness and fear melts the pain and the voice in my head is done screaming but it’s never done screaming and it’s never really ok for any prolonged period of time and my heart is so heavy and i’m not sure i can carry it and i’m tired of living like this but right now i’m not sure anything can fix it and i need to talk, but no one has enough time to listen. but i get it, and i promise i’m not trying to get you to carry my burden. i just wish you understood the way the mix of overwhelm anxiety exhaustion and something like depression has of burning so bright that the colours vacuum themselves black-and-white all around me like i’m stuck in the second the photograph develops and it’s blurry all around me. and i’m so tired of humanity being so fucked up and i’m tired of my hands shaking every time i try to hollow out my throat and show you what it’s like in my mind and i’m tired of missing nothing about being a kid but hating myself unquestioningly. the monster in my head has me tackled and it keeps whispering things i’d never do except maybe i would because i worry i am nothing compared to the black hole inside me and it feels like i’m being possessed and these decisions are not choices, they are grasps into darkness. i hate that i wanted to die when i was six years old and what kind of person wants to die when they’re six years old and where did i even get that concept from and why can’t i just grow up and be all right like everyone else and why is loving other people so difficult and why does the poison i injected into my own veins become more apparent the more i try to heal from it taking slow steps away from the murder scenes where i am both the killer and the victim scattered through my veins. and my fingers shake and my life doesn’t feel like it’s worth anything today because it can’t be worth anything today because the pain is too much to handle and when nothing else works this is my fire escape and i’m falling apart right in front of you, and yeah i’m hanging in there, but the medication isn’t helping and and you don’t understand that i actually want to be happy and i wish you could accept that i don’t always have logical justifications for my feelings and i’m falling apart and i need you to listen, and i need you to not be afraid, and i need something i’m never going to get, and i hate that i still can hear every single time you’ve told me i’m a disappointment, and i’m drowning, and i need you to not call me selfish or be disgusted, and i need you to let me breathe, and what i need is for you to get it this time. but you won’t. and i know that. and my therapist says i need to learn to live with that. and i’m trying my hardest not to make my heart the breeding ground for desperation but it’s harder when i’m shattered glass on the ground trying to put myself together with my bleeding fingers but it really hurts, and the words i don’t know how to say are that a breakdown is when being alive feels pretty impossible today.


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