how to call a helpline

Copy how to call a helpline

cradle my heart in your arms. cradle my heart in your arms and wrap me in blankets and tell me cat is wrong i don’t care. i don’t fucking care so crack my skull open and rearrange the peices in whatever way you promise will make me ok. please make me ok. just make me ok. because the sky turns dark and the shadows bend all around me. and my heart pounds. and people talk about mental illness like it’s temporary. like someday, i’ll wake up in the morning and not feel the small box of sadness, nestled like a present i never wanted in my chest. but… i can’t even remember a time when my mind hasn’t defined me. i can’t remember a time when it was easy. i can’t remember a time when it didn’t feel like i was bearing the weight of the scars of my family, and it doesn’t matter if you didn’t do this intentionally because it’s not your fault, it’s just faulty code because right now it feels like my dna wants to kill me. cradle my whole body in your arms and light sparks in the candles of my eyes because i don’t have anything left inside me. cradle my sobbing body because how could anyone ever know all of me and still love and how the hell could anyone ever know me and still want me because i’m not a character in a movie. and i miss you already because there was someone in the world who cared about me, and i just wanted something in my life that wasn’t owned by my anxiety.


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i want to self-harm again

trigger warning: self-harm, panic attack

my hands shake as they are held like hammers the shaking self-hatred poised above my skin because i only feel good when i’m empty of the emotions and i know no other way to get them out but this. and the words keep sort of echoing through my head, and it’s all too much to talk about and i hate the way you do your makeup just for the sake of appearances. because it’s always about appearances. which kinda makes me wanna cut my face off but please don’t tell anyone about it. because i feel like a crime, and i don’t wanna be put in jail if i’m reported. and i don’t wanna be a mess, but i feel like i am a little bit so someone remold my skull. i want to tell the voice in my head and your voice in my head and your body sliding into mine and becoming all i have ever been that i’m in control. but other people are surrounding me and all the noises. all the noises. all the noises. god, they scare me. god, they scare me. i’m a child, trapped alone in a room trying to understand the pile of feelings surrounding me. but mostly i fall apart, trying to crush the feelings with a hammer into a thousand tiny tiny tiny parts. a thousand parts, that will crumble to pieces and shatter themselves on the ground and then i’ll drown in an ocean of cortisol and adrenaline, self-administered pumping through my veins. my hands shake. the neuron networks in my brain shatter but they don’t pull themselves together again. and just pull yourself. just pull yourself. just pull yourself together. just stitch your broken thoughts into a quilt and make art. there should be a way of expressing this other than slamming the feelings out all over again. there should be a way of making people get it without hurting myself. there should be a way of feeling safe inside my head without surrounding my thoughts in barbed wire and leaving bruises on my thighs but… i haven’t found it yet.


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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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