i guess it’s november

i’m by your front door. i’ve knocked five times. and you said you’d be there, but i guess no one’s home anymore.

god, it’s cold. and maybe i’m not good enough. maybe i’ll never be good enough. i don’t know.

but at least the sadness doesn’t pound in like this. instead, it’s just… a numb deadweight in your chest. and it drags you down, and you’re lying on the ground staring up at the sky. but don’t you dare cry–

that’s stupid. i know it is.  the grass is never greener on the other side. but i still can’t help but believe it is. just a little bit.

i’m lying in bed. 11:37p.m. and i can’t help but listen to the endless purr of the dial tone.

because maybe company will distract me from everything else i can’t help but know.

except i’m not stupid. so mostly, i just stare up at the ceiling. watching my past replay in slow-mo. every time i failed, every time i was stupid enough to let it go–

and i can’t help but think that maybe i was just made to be alone.

i’m watching you laugh through one-sided glass. and i can’t even imagine who i’d be. if i knew someone who made me happy like that.

i don’t have someone like that, though.


Something I wrote about a lot of stuff I was feeling last year. (These kind of feeling still affect me, but for the most part, it’s better.) It’s not really something I’m currently struggling with, but… it felt important to write, anyhow. A small homage to the person I used to be, and how far I’ve come, I guess.

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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drain

and i watch you fall. yet again. and even instagram filters can’t make your situation look any prettier. because nothing will ever make it prettier. because… it’s nothing. i mean. whatever. just another year spent in suffering. just another mind went crazy in this fucked up society. as i watch you fall into oblivion, but only from a distance. because i don’t know how to be near this. and because i’m tired. and because my mind is about to explode. and i don’t know. and right now, i can’t handle this. and i’m sorry about that. i’m sorry that i don’t know who you are. i’m sorry i’m always tired. i’m sorry i can’t carry anything else on my shoulders. and i’m sorry this is happening to you. i’m sorry this is happening to all of you. and i’m sorry i can’t take the pain away; can’t lift it up off all of your shoulders, and carry it for a while so you get a break, even if only for a day. i’m sorry i never knew you. i’m sorry you weren’t a happy person. i’m sorry it all ended up this way. and i’m sorry we’re all standing at the edge of the bathtub watching the water slowly circle down the drain. and watching the last fragments of you slowly circle down the drain. and trying our best to avoid the moment when i can’t help but imagine myself just like you, someday.


my grandmother has dementia. occasionally, i’ll write a poem about it as a way of trying to process it. i won’t pretend to understand fully what she’s going through, what it must be like to be the primary caregiver for someone with this illness. i’ve always been the outside perspective, because i never really knew my grandmother that well growing up. the one who saw things logically before they saw things emotionally. it’s not so much a stabbing grief, as a slow, vague sadness that even now, i don’t really know how to process. that’s a simple explanation of what this poem is about, but… i think it’s about more than that to me. it’s about suffering, and illness, and… not knowing what to do about it. i don’t know if anyone will even relate to this, but i just wanted to shove it out there anyway.


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may 10th, 2019

i am falling, i am falling, i am falling. and i know that i have the power to stop myself. i know that this is like a butterfly fearing that every time it goes to sleep, it’ll turn back into a caterpillar. and i’m not eleven anymore.  it’s just… it’s hard not to be scared, when every time you look back on your past, all you see is a prison. and when you can’t help but wonder… if maybe you were only ever made to be a broken record. or a history that can’t stop repeating itself. or a body hurled off the edge of a cliff. or just something else. i am falling. i am falling. i am falling. and it turns out that parachutes and false senses of security aren’t actually things that happen in reality. and my brain won’t stop screaming at me. and i am falling, and it’s scary, and it’s confusing and… it’s funny. how you can have studied for this moment a thousand times over, and still not know how to do anything. i. am. falling.


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and apparently puppies on instagram are the only things with bright eyes anymore

and you don’t know about any of this, do you? don’t know how fucked up everything is, right now. don’t know how sometimes, i just sort of want to curl up into a ball and cry for all the shit i’ve lost, now. now. now. and by that, i guess i just mean my innocence. i mean the fleeting, shattered moments when i trusted you more than i trusted anyone else. i mean i’m rereading the books of my childhood, and suddenly i understand. and you don’t feel any of this, do you? don’t get it. what the world has fucking come to. don’t understand that sometimes in life you love people so much, and they will care the world in return and still never know how to love you. and if you hear screaming just let me know, because tonight the monsters in my head are hunting me down to the death again, and sometimes i say things i don’t mean to. and can’t you see it? the way that on the bad nights, sometimes exhaustion slams the door, but never locks me in. and is it better? to be ignorant? to just not have to think about any of this? because… you just look so happy. like all you really want in your life is to spend it loving someone unconditionally.


so im sleep deprived and getting sick as i write this, but like i think this is okay? when i’m sick all logic honestly just goes out the window, but i think it’s okay.


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