I’ve been writing novels and poems since I came out of the womb. It’s a gift. When I get traumatized, depressed, or anxious, expect lots of poetry and writing :).
I’ve been writing novels and poems since I came out of the womb. It’s a gift. When I get traumatized, depressed, or anxious, expect lots of poetry and writing :).
you know i was walking through a field
and i had my umbrella
because its may
and it always rains in may
but it didnt
i had to check my watch
maybe its june?
but i havent graduated
its may
and its not raining
and im in a field
lost and looking for a ride i called
because it was raining
but its not raining and it never was
i was so sure itd rain
its may
but it wont
i dont need the ride
i dont need the umbrella
i didnt need any of it
I feel so much so often. So many things hurt. Crying feels so good because I couldn’t do it for so long. I love bleeding. I am so good at not making myself bleed but every time it happens on accident I am purely elated. Temporary relief. A memory I’ll hold when the cravings come in. A gorgeous paradise I’ll imagine when I wish the liquid was pouring from my veins into a river on the ground so that the last sight I ever saw would be one I’d feel warm, safe, and understood in.
My pain isn’t really silent. As I type this, my rickety table squeaks from movement. The pressing of my keys is loud and fast; sporadic. When I type on my phone you hear the pounding of thumbs. You see the swipes of finger marks. You see a new note, but it’s locked and you can only see the date. Then you scroll down and there are so many locked notes from years and so many days and multiple on each day at points and you have no idea what pain it was but you know something is in there that is deep and personal and that I hold dear to me but ignore at the same time.
I vividly remember my most painful feelings. I know every detail and relive it every second. It’s happening still. I remember it clearly, but at the same time, it’s a blue of movement and adrenaline. But if I dive deep into the memories, feelings, each second of how it played out, I think I’ll break. I’ll wonder how I kept going after living that because how can someone survive with their heart ripped out of their chest.
I don’t even want to type the memories because that’s diving. I can’t. I used to sometimes dive and it hurt, but now I just keep them held tight in my mind. I’m keeping my enemies so close so I know they’re there and I know I can control them.
You might think that writing that I love bleeding and that it gives me such a deep and primal pleasure and it seems like who I am at the base of it is my deepest pain. It’s not. Truly physical pain is nothing to memories. This is a fascination of mine. I like blood. It is a weird and likely concerning quality. When I say it, everyone knows it’s not quite right. They think it’s deep.
But if I tell you one of my memories and explain how it felt and why it is so vivid, you’d be a bit baffled and underwhelmed. Why does something like that bother you so much? How is that your trauma? How is that the nightmare that tears your soul out of you in your sleep to violate it until you’re conscious again? How is that important to you?
I’ve run out of words. I’ve poured them out on the page and kept all the truest and most painful ones to myself. Maybe that is why they still torture me. Maybe it is because I keep the worst monsters, my best friends and night terrors, within me and let go of all the resulting pain and anguish. I’m fermenting the pain so the fumes keep rising and I keep getting intoxicated but I’m not done drinking. I’m not going to pour the wine out. I’m an alcoholic. This wine has hurt me in ways you never can and knows me more than I do now. How can I let it go? It has all my secrets.
But goodness. Maybe it’s not wine I’m drinking. Maybe it’s my thoughts. Maybe it’s pulling them out and letting me see who I am before it hides it again. Maybe I’m the monster that’s trapping the innocent germ inside. Maybe I’m protecting it like a parent would its child. I’m trying to save it because it is so torn up with wounds all over and is so sensitive to sunlight. I’m trying to save it but I also don’t know how to. And if I show anyone or ask them for help raising it, they could hurt it. They could take it.
i had a dream we stared at the stars as you held me dearly in your arms
my heart beat and twisted because that was where i was meant to be
it was perfect until i woke up and my eyes overflowed with the sea
because its been months and youre over me
i remember idolizing the dreams as our future one day
no matter if you were too scared to come out as gay
we were going to lay in flower fields in may
get colds in the april rain
i didnt plan on including any pain
even the dreams of stars used to be nice
now they feel like rolling a dangerous dice
the sky full of stars seemed dead and cold
a place once so magical now hurt to behold
i used to dream
id assume her position at my middle school
id make a positive difference in the lives of kids just like she did to me and so many others
but the thing is
i dont want to
be in the same building that kept me alive in my darkest days?
walk the halls i grew up in?
the ones i first admitted i didnt want to be alive in?
the ones where i told her i cut myself the night before?
the ones where she gave me a hoodie that i still have in my closet
halfway across the world
do i want to go to back or
is it better as a memory
a bittersweet dream
one girl i gave her a referral
i wanted her to hold my heart i thought love would be like art
it didnt make sense am i the one who repents?
i loved her i wanted no other
yet here i am broken and bam!
now im alone again making me wonder if i like men
and shes still in my heart it really fucking wasnt art
it feels embarrassing to exist
im embarrassed to be walking around in my ugly face acting like im normal
like maybe i look okay
i dont
i look so bad
everyone’s clear skin reflects on the red scabs of my picked and oily skin
everyones clothing style and body shape is towered over by my odd curves and weird, ugly style
my body does the clothes no justice and vice versa
it’s embarrassing to be
to be me
to try to wear makeup to school because then everyone knows i tried to be less ugly and still failed
it’s embarrassing that the same day my lover mentioned my forehead i got bangs to hide it
theyve grown out and wont save me anymore
it’s embarrassing that i got braces for two years and yet my teeth are still crooked
it’s embarrassing that i brush my teeth daily and drink milk i hate and yet my teeth are still yellow and my breath is bad
i brush my tongue twice each time
it’s embarrassing to be me
it really is
how is everyone else pretty
why are they all pretty and i look like this
why does nothing fix my face
why are my eyes so small
i used ti think they were normal but no
theyre too small
my nose is too big and bulbous
my lips are not full enough
my chin is too big
i have no jawline
i am so embarrassing to exist this way
i dont understand
sometimes i feel fat and ugly
i look in the mirror and my face is so disgusting i can’t be around others
other times i think maybe im pretty
maybe i have nice eyebrows
maybe my eyes are a pretty green
maybe my large teeth match my face
or maybe theyre yellow
maybe my eyebrows are unkempt
maybe my eyes are plain
maybe im hideous
i have a deep desire to be a good person
to imrove someones life
the world
save someones life
i feel guilty if i scroll past the video of a dyind pet begging for money to fund life-saving surgery
i dont regret it when i give all my cash to the people on the street who need it more than me
i wish that i picked up every piece of trash i saw on my walks
i didnt. i should have
every time i think of a compliment, i feel itd be a hateful thing to not share out loud.
if someone looks beautiful they should know
if everyone had the same desires as me and the power to wct on those, this world would be run by women
