and maybe i have a chance

trigger warning: mention of suicidal thoughts and self-harm, but in the context of no longer wanting them

at around 7:59 when the air smells like flowers and i’m all alone and it’s still light i like to think about it like she tells me to, with that voice like my life is a map i’ve only just started to unwind, and i don’t know when exactly it happens but i imagine myself like a flower, curled up so tight into a ball because i was so scared of being blinded by the sun and the idea of coming out made my heart pound, but someday i’ll come out. and i like to think that someday it’ll be beautiful. and i like to think she’s right. and i’ll be all right. and i’m worth people’s time and it’s ok to be soft even though my whole childhood was spent hurting myself on purpose and when i look in the mirror every muscle in my body curls in like a scared turtle and the stains of the things that have been said are making my skin look purple and i don’t think you understand that the little words are grenades sending fissures through me making so hazy and i want to sleep so fucking badly but i’m scared the darkness will consume me and i’m scared of what my brain does when i pinch myself again so tired so tired so tired i push myself over the edge again and no wait i’m trying to hold myself rather than jumping but sometimes my skin on my skin makes my skin start crawling and no wait i’m trying to hold on and i’m trying and i’m trying and i’m trying so hard and i’m standing in the middle of the sky and it’s all emptied out and the sunset is it just me it looks so much like it’s bleeding red and it looks so much like it’s dying on the inside but i could be wrong and my life is the music playing at a party and i’m trying to dance. but i’ve actually never been to a party, so mostly i’m just mouthing the words to this song trying to calm the hot-glue burn of the things i shouldn’t have said. and i’m trying to accept my past self as anything more than a scar lashed across my skin. and i’m going to do this. i’m broken wire remoulding myself. i’m lines of code that keep spitting out answers and some of them are wrong. some of them are wrong. some of them are wrong. and as the sunset traces its way over the horizon, i think i’m learning how to do this. i think tomorrow might actually exist, and maybe i’m not going to die, and maybe my thoughts can be quantified and maybe you’ll understand and maybe i’m not going to die. and maybe i can figure this out. and maybe i have a chance.


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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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