how to fight a feeling

how to fight(2)(1)

get pliers. and a piece of paper. and your mind is a thousand broken circuits and you read all about this in elementary school but that doesn’t mean you have any idea how to deal with it. doesn’t mean you know what to tell the weird looks and empty faces all the times it feels like they will never understand because they will never understand because. they’re different, but the kind of different that people are more likely to accept than mine, i guess. because i listen to my feelings too much and you listen to your feelings too little and i guess we’ll probably always hate each other a bit for that. hold your heart up at the operating table and wonder if any of it means anything because it’s always so complicated. because it’s always about grabbing other people’s attention before they run away because they’re always the ones to run away, and i honestly can’t even breathe when i think about this. close your eyes. apparently, there are people who get out of this. apparently, should be able to control my mental illness. picking out every single dark thought as i am at the edge of blinded, and when i cannot see, i will ask you to see for me. and i will trust you. because you promised me something, and because i believe you for the sake of my sanity. i believe you because i can’t do this alone. as much as i’d like to. as much as my heart is surrounded by barbed wire. as much as i don’t like to admit i’m bleeding because i hurt myself again because in the moment, it didn’t even seem like a bad thing. even though it is a bad thing. i just don’t know how to realize it’s a bad thing. because i don’t even think i realize the extent of which my head is broken. so i stand in the mirror. reading off a piece of paper all the things my therapist told me to remember.  and in the morning, the words feel just a little more true then they did yesterday.


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dear instagram

dear instagram, my life is not copyrighted to anyone but me. this is my heart. this is my head. i get to choose what i share about it. my life is my life,  and i am free of what anyone else thinks about it. my moments are not something you can commercialize. my moments are not yours to demolish. this is my heart. and this is my life. and i’m trying, and right now i’m not doing too great, but… i’m trying. and i’m just tired of needing people who will never love me to love me. love me. just love me… and i’m tired of waiting. i’m tired of begging. i’m tired of being the one on my knees. the one who needs, and needs, and needs. the one who coats her personality in overcast days and false sun rays because then it’ll all seem normal, right? is this better? dear instagram, please stop making me feel like my writing has to be a certain way. like my mind has to be a certain way. like the way i see the world has to fit neatly inside a culture, stereotype or cliché. dear instagram, i am not doing this because i want to, i am doing this because i feel like i have to. i am doing this because i want people to notice me. i am doing this because i want a megaphone for my poetry and i’ll put up with it i guess. if i have to. dear instagram, my mind is fucked up enough as is. please stop, all right? just, please. stop. because life is complicated. more complicated than any picture can encompass. because i guess i’ve been in this place for a long, long time. the place where i am tucking the blankets in tighter and tighter, because i’m six years old. and in reality, there’s only bits of dust and some darkness, but in my head, there are monsters, tearing slowly through the mattress, and they’re trying to eat me, and they’re hungry… but in reality, nothing’s happening. and i bleed. and i try. and eventually, i end up cast out on the street corner, every single time. because when i was eleven, i remember thinking that all i wanted in a guy was someone who would love me back. remember thinking that was romantic. when that is not romantic. and i know who i am. it’s just… hard sometimes. to take a deep breath. close my eyes. open my eyes. and not just wince at the sight of it. because i want this to be about more than pretending. i want this to be the first healthy friendship i have ever had. i want this to be the start of a better kind of story. not the rosy kind. not the kind with rose-tinted glasses and smiley faces. not the kind of story that doesn’t know pain. the kind of story that cries on each other’s shoulders. the kind that gives you pep talks when you just want to bury yourself in blankets and stop being alive. the kind that lights up when it sees you and spins you around in circles until you’re about to colllapse. the kind that stays. the kind that loves. dear instagram, i don’t need you to tell me how to be who i am.


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and now all the flowers are dying

and now all the flowers you gave me are dying(1)

because / on the day of the performance / you gave me cut flowers / and you smiled / and you encouraged me like you always did because / i guess that’s what you do / and you said / that i did good / and it didn’t feel like i did good right then / but i think you were right / because for the first time in a long time / i wasn’t terrified and it’s the last day of school / and the flowers are dying / and i miss you is all i mean / i miss / feeling / like i would never be lost again / because now i’m just sitting here writing poetry / half-asleep / and aching / and probably totally catastrophizing / because anxiety can do that to me sometimes / make me feel like my insides are being split open sometimes / make my head wash itself to nothing only to clear everything out on these shelves and here we go all over again / here we go / and / i / slowly / fall / and on the day of the performance / i run into the bathroom / and i stare into the mirror / and i splash water on my face / and i stare into the mirror and / it’s all your fault it’s all your fault it’s all your fault / and / i can’t think and i can’t think / and it all rushes through like a flock of butterflies on their way to die / way / way / way / too quickly and / what if nothing is what i thought it would be / and / what if it’s over after this / and what if i’ll never be happy / and what if


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rainy days but on the inside

rainy days but on the inside(1)

indie acoustic mental illness. and the darkness surrounding me. and i’m so sick i’m convinced i’m not sick half the time which i guess is the problem with this. and there’s a black hole in my head and it caffeine refuses to fix it. and so do the blankets, wrapped around my shoulders like i can make a cave out of my heart if i try hard enough. like i can hide away from everything that hurts and just pretend it’s ok. just pretend it’s ok. just pretend nothing is going to hurt anymore. just pretend. because they say just pretend. because instagram poetry says just pretend. because the stress smashing through my skull says just pretend. because the advice columns and vacation culture says just laugh it off and it’ll be ok, right? maybe? and sometimes i wonder if i really even have anxiety. even though i know i have anxiety. because some days i’m all right. because maybe i’m recovering, but i also feel like i’m just lying. and i also don’t know who i am without my mental illness and i know it’s probably not like it seems like it is. but the lady at the corner says you can’t sell sad poetry and i wonder if she’s right. i wonder if she’s right that it’s better. to just laugh it off and pretend it’s all right even though i know perfectly well she’s wrong. but i don’t know how to give you my heart without being afraid because honestly, i am one massive ticking time bomb, and if i can hurt myself this much maybe i am just one massive grenade waiting to go off. because the masks flicker. and change. and change, and change, and there are new expectations all over again. and if you romanticize never sleeping and spending days that feel longer than days feeling empty it’ll all be ok. it’ll be fine. i mean, whatever, right?


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people can be terrible

people-can-be-terrible-sometimes1

words. like machine guns firing in the background of my head and i feel my skull slowly cave in under the pressure of knowing that you know i exist and my fingers slam into the keyboard like the punches i can’t bring myself to throw and if i just slam hard enough it’ll put the fire in my head out. out. out. please put it out. out. out. as in get this monster out of my head and get these words out of my head because you’re in my head and at this point, there’s probably not much i can do about it. and i know people can be assholes but i can’t believe it. because if you can be wrong how do i know i’m not wrong? because if you can be right how do i know i’m worth it?  and i know i’m supposed to be strong. and i know i’m supposed to keep fighting. and i know i’m not supposed to shatter at your fists like a ceramic doll but i am. i am. i am. and i can’t hold myself together because my heart is not your shooting range but my heart kind of is your shooting range. but my heart is the kind of city they show in dystopian movies.  with the vines, growing around the still-standing skeletons of buildings because somehow my head keeps surviving every time i write it obituaries. because when i was twelve, i don’t know why exactly, but i think there’s still a document on my onedrive labelled read this if i die. and somehow, i’m still alive, but honestly sometimes i don’t even know why. because my heart is your shooting range and i bet you’re laughing. because you got me. got me right on target because to you, this is a game, right? this is a game, and because it’s a game you don’t even have to feel anything. don’t have to take responsibility. don’t have to care about the girl crying in the corner as my heart floods itself over. but i’m just a girl, right? just a kid, right? just someone you can brush off. someone you can roll your eyes at. i’m just another kid, who buried herself a little too deep in her head. another kid, who shoved her heart right out in the open. not realizing what we do in this world to each other’s emotions.


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