because i am a volcano

and the stress piles up on my shoulders. and i run faster, and faster, and faster. and i set myself on fire, and then wonder why i don’t sleep so well anymore. and my thoughts are shattered glass, and i don’t know what the truth is, and i am a volcano. so i close my eyes. and fake a smile. and try not to cry. because i am a volcano, and villains don’t cry. so i blow my chance, and tell you everything is fine. and i keep going. and i keep going. and i keep going, despite everything that’s happening. and i think myself to nothing, and i get good grades, but i don’t learn much of anything, and i hide in the corner believing pointless things, waiting for someone to rescue me. or something. and i tell myself over and over again how much i deserve this, until i start to believe it. bit. by. bit.


a vent poem i wrote after a really stressful day. because i just in general feel like i’ve been really over-extending myself of late. (oh yeah, and because pretty much everything i post is heavy these days, find a crisis line in your region here.)


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bury me

trigger warning: implied self harm reference

i can only think at night for a reason, okay? because when it’s light out, everything just screams at me. and the sun stabs into my eyes, and i just want you to bury me. in food, or stories, or music, or anything that will make the time pass more quickly. bury me. because i don’t want to feel anything. i don’t want to be anybody. and i don’t want to think about what i’ve just done. because who was i, to kid myself that i could take care of anybody? and i can’t think, and i can’t breathe, and i can’t comprehend what’s happening to me, but i want it to stop, okay? i want all of this to stop. and i want to curl up, in a room with no lights and no people and no wifi. and i just want to write this all out. and breathe, until i’m okay. but i guess you don’t understand that. so let me try to explain it a different way. i’m tired. i’m tired of all of this. i’m tired of being at war with my head. i’m tired of not getting it. and i don’t want to hurt myself. i just want to feel nothing for a second.


sometimes i feel like i’ve spent my whole life hiding from myself. running from who i am and who i might become, and the relationships i might have had if i hadn’t been so afraid of letting them blossom. this poem is pretty heavy, so just in case, here’s a list of crisis lines just in case you need them.


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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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howl

lighting in my belly / and the sky starts to bend / as i raise my hands / and i just want to make it all stop for a second / and maybe i am not human / and maybe i am just playing pretend / and i will slowly walk towards the edge / and there is no moon / and there is no sun / and there is only darkness / and my head / and the scars i’m tired of wearing / and a number i am fucking fed up of bearing / and i just want to be alone for a second / and i just want to forget / forget / forget / but i can’t forget / forget / forget / and i just want the silence to ring through my ears / and for peace to exist / because i’m tired of being at war with this / this constant buzzing anxiety / and it’s not cute / it’s not trendy / it’s stealing my last ounces of control away from me / and i’ll call out / because i want to get out / i want to get out / i want to get out of this cage / this place / and i’m tired of being sick / i am so tired of being sick / and i’ll scream out / because i can’t handle being alone / and i’ll dig my nails into my arms / trying to get it out / trying to twist it out / trying to stop hurting / this loud / but it won’t really help / and there will be no escape / and i will bang at my skull / trying to get out / because i don’t want to be sick / because i am tired of being sick / and i will grab onto you like a lifeboat / and i don’t know / and on days like this / all i want is to run toward the storm / and let go


pretty sure one of the first poems i ever posted here was called “howl”? so consider this a vaguely sentimental comparison poem and please no one find my old writing and read it! also, i know this is really heavy, so… just in case, find a crisis line in your area here.


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september 15th, 2019

trigger warning: self-harm

and i’m sure you don’t want to talk to me. and i’m sure you don’t want to see me. and i’m sure you fucking hate being anywhere near me. and the words flow out of me way too quickly. and it all just feels… so… heavy. and so don’t breathe. and so lock yourself in the dark, and the news hits like a bomb, and i am the city. i am always the city. i am always the arm reaching out from the abyss, trying my best to fight the urge to just pull you into this emptiness, because god does it get lonely. and the more you say the faster the state of my mental health degrades, and the more i’ll pretend to be falling apart and redefine it as okay. and i’m sure i deserve this, even though i don’t deserve this. and scissors will hit the skin, and the sharp numbness will finally set in. and i’ll hide my face. and i’ll pretend i don’t exist. because it’s just poetry. it’s not that good. no one really knows about me. and what is this ever going to lead to, in the end? really.


it’s been a really bad month in terms of anxiety. sometimes i can’t even breathe walking down a hallway.  i don’t recognize this person i’m turning into.


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