september 20th, 2019

trigger warning: self-harm, suicidal thoughts. please be safe while reading, and if you need to talk to anyone, my mental health resources post is here.

scissors. and the blade at my finger. and the bedroom light, and the silence, and the text messages gradually trickling through. but it’s all right, because these wounds that still won’t heal? i deserve it. i deserve to be in pieces on the floor. i deserve the water rising in my lungs, and the suicidal thoughts. and don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry. because i’m too tired to be a mess again. and why am i so tired… and why can’t i stop running through the motions of this life, as every day goes by like sand in the wind and it’s coming too quick, and i take in a breath but there’s no time to let it out because there’s scissors, and the bedroom light, and my stomach flipping itself inside out and whispering good night. good night. good night. because it’s probably not healthy to stay up writing until way past midnight. and if only writing out the entire story of my life were as simple as sketching out an outline. because it all seemed so much simpler in the outline… and why is my mind just a pile of broken, flickering neon lights? and why am i a signpost on the side of a highway in the middle of nowhere, and i need to know where to go but the letters are blurred, and the power is out, and the shadows flicker across every decision i’ve ever made because it’s never too late to cast the past in doubt. and i can’t process any of this. so instead i’m sitting here. past midnight. slamming at a keyboard. like if i write hard enough, it’ll all drip out. out. out. and i’ll be able to meet someone’s eyes without having a breakdown, which is more than i can say right now. but if that actually works, why isn’t this mess in my head cleaned up by now?


of late existing in general has been really hard for me. i’m hanging in there, and i’m safe, but… it’s hard. if you follow my writing, that’s probably pretty easy to figure out. everything is so confusing right now. this spiral of not-knowing that feels sometimes like it’s just going to tighten, tighter and tighter. swallow me up completely. the end. that’s irrational, it might paralyze me, but confusion can’t kill me. this poem was written about a specific incident, on september 20th, 2019, when i just felt… like a horrible person. writing this was the only way i knew how to really deal with it.


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september 13th, 2019

it would be nice. to hear your voice, and believe that it’s all right. because my head feels like it’s melting. and i don’t know what to believe. and it would be nice to not feel this way, for a while, okay? to not feel… alone. or empty. or… like a castle, crumbling to pieces. or like a girl who can’t stop tearing herself to pieces, because it’s habit. and because rather than playing with toys in the basement like a normal kid you had an illness. and now maybe now do you understand why it hurts like this? why it’s so hard to let go like this? and why i can’t even step out of my room without having a panic attack like this? like this? like this? and it would be really nice to not hate myself so much all the time. or to have any idea what’s going on inside my head. or to be able to maintain a stable social interaction, but obviously… that’s not going to happen. at least… not this time. because that’s the thing about mental illness, isn’t it?  if you get a broken leg, you can put it in a cast. and if you get the flu, there’s a shot for that. but there are no surgeries to fix a childhood spent believing you’re worthless. there is no instant cure. there is no miracle fix. even if people can listen. and help. and hold your hand, for however long they have. and give you hugs, and suggestions, and make you feel okay for the first time in ages. but this is my fight. this will always be my fight. and no one else can change that.


i think the thing about getting help is–before you actually get it, at least for me, it had this kind of mythic status in my head. once i got help, i would be okay. i would be normal. i would be cured. just like that. i don’t think it’s like that. therapy helps. it really does help. but it helps you fix yourself. going to therapy is work. maybe i’ve always thought of it like a medical surgery–like something i just had to lie still and wait for the anesthesia to kick in for. but it’s not like that. it’s the opposite. going to therapy is like operating on yourself while fully conscious. therapy is relearning everything you ever thought was true about yourself. and i can’t say how much that has helped. but in the end… you still have to choose what you do with that. no one else can fight the battle for you. they can only support you in it.


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and i will pour plaster over my scars

trigger warning: self-harm

there’s a knife-shaped wound on my ankle that i gave myself today. and i will try my hardest when the darkness rises, not to tear myself apart. or at least… i’ll try not to hold a pair of scissors that way again. even though i probably will hold a pair of scissors that way again. i’ll try not to be so horrible to myself all the time. i’ll try not hate myself enough to tear the clouds off the sky. and it probably won’t work for a really long time, but i’m going to try. there’s a knife-shaped wound on my ankle, like the rung of a ladder, and i’m trying not to follow it down this path forever. i swear. it’s just… hard. because there’s a knife-shaped wound on my ankle, and i hate that it’s fading, because as long as it’s there i actually feel like a functional person, which is so fucked up, in ways i can’t even begin to explain. and honestly, all i know right now is how to hate myself for giving in. because it’s a toxic cycle, and once you really start listening to the monsters, you just sort of start to give in… and there’s a knife-shaped wound on my ankle, that still hasn’t faded, and honestly some days it takes everything i have in me not to flat-out just reopen it. but i haven’t done that. maybe i will, someday. but i didn’t do it today. and that has to count as progress.


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again again again

trigger warning: self-harm. whatever you’re going through, if you need to talk to anyone, you’re not alone, you’re not crazy, and there is help out there. find a crisis line in your area by clicking on the word here.

bleeding fingers, leaving smudges on the keyboard and i’m sorry. i know i promised you i wouldn’t hurt myself, it’s just sometimes it’s fucking hard, okay? and sometimes, i spend the whole night on stupid websites, pretending i’m fine, when i am not fine, and pretending i’m keeping up with my work when i’m not keeping up with my work. and pretending i’m keeping up with this world. when i’m not keeping up with this world. and i’m sorry, my dear, broken, body. i’m sorry there’s a demon inside me. i’m sorry i romanticize my own illness. i’m sorry i can’t breathe. i’m sorry i’m numb on the kitchen floor, because you weren’t supposed to leave. and i’m sorry, for hurting myself. and i’m sorry for not sleeping. and i’m sorry for hating you. it’s just once you get started, it’s so hard to stop it. and my fingers are bleeding over the fucking keyboard. and i’m not crazy. i’m just… a little bit messy. and just a little bit broken. and just a little bit of the remnants of glass, destroying my fingertips, scratching at your cheeks, and scratching at your ankles, and slicing at your knees. and it’s not what it looks like. i swear. and i swear, i’ll be all right someday. and i swear it’s going to get better, or whatever will make you stop looking at me like a half-finished calamity, because  i just need you to tell me you want me here. i need you to tell me you actually care. and hold my hands back, so i don’t pick at every forming scab, until my fingers bleed over the keyboard. until i cry in my closet, listening to angry music hoping that will make it better. and i text you, but you still don’t answer. and i will tell you i love you back. and i will tell you i need you here. and maybe, maybe, maybe someday we can get through this together.


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pandora

pandora(1)


trigger warning: suicidal thoughts, self-harm

because have you ever heard this story? the one about a girl who has monsters in her head since the day she is born. the one where the girl grows up like a bomb just waiting to go off building walls of fire around her skull and watching as little peices of her slowly. let. go. the one where the girl lets the monsters out, and it looks a lot like a tornado. and the girl has trouble sleeping at night because she knows that if she does she’ll be alone. the one about the girl who some days feels like nothing more than a calamity. the one where sometimes, the girl worries until she can’t breathe because at least anxiety counts as company. and so the girl drowns herself in self-hatred. smashes her heart and tries her best to bury the pieces and burying the pieces turns into lying on the floor bleeding like a catastrophe and then the girl realizes. that people don’t like you when you’re messy. and so the girl stuffs her mental illness into a box and hopes that’ll make this ok because really, i’m fine, i mean whatever i just want to die sometimes just want to tear myself apart when i look in the mirror right just imaging slicing myself up piece by piece until i’m skinny because sometimes it’s just hard to lie there alone with my body. and so the girl closes her eyes, and learns that sometimes, when they feel like they can’t handle it anymore, even seeds go into a kind of protected mode, somewhere between life and death and i am the girl, with her headphones turned all. the fucking. way. up. and i am the girl, and it’s one of those days. when i can feel myself collapsing and it just feels somehow like the end. like maybe this was just one massive game of pretend. and maybe i’m still more alone than ever now because all i ever wanted was for someone to stay. because i don’t need you to be perfect. i just need you to promise you’ll still be there with me.  but right now, you’re not even saying anything. so have you heard the story about a girl called pandora whose monsters swirl around her head, and she can feel them, slipping into her skin and taking control. again.


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