hello wonderful people! xx | feelings! | she/her | 14 | infp-t | gemini | i like poetry | i <3 NF | reading/writing/psychology! | bit of writing perfectionist problems
hello wonderful people! xx | feelings! | she/her | 14 | infp-t | gemini | i like poetry | i <3 NF | reading/writing/psychology! | bit of writing perfectionist problems
the sharp taste of salt water burns my throat the smell of fish and oil like the sound of hopelessness dripping down the drain we are floating on a precipice I am drowning in this feeling I drown in all my feelings did you know whales bloat when they die? floating on feelings until eventually they explode we are diving deeper into the ravine of whirring wire and concrete we are eating her children ripping pink meat from inside a bird’s stomach fingers covered in red juice counting bottle caps i am lost in the tangled seaweed sitting on an iceberg about to crack and plunge me, lifeless, into the icy water but I don’t mind drowning orcas have been crowned killer whales because they lunge and beg for blood in the constant torrent of watery thoughts tail slapping the life boat of therapy and control _take back your life! do something, anything! _ constantly struggling to stay above the surface a polar bear drags its cub’s dead body across the crisp snow, tainting it in blood red on fur, teeth in skin-ripping apart their child’s flesh and swallowing it until they live and breathe despair filling their stomach with the warmth of the end of it all if white means purity the splotches of black on their skin must be brutal marks of their corrupted battles on their bodies that show the violence of their thoughts of my thoughts the black bruises on my skin must be sins written in permanent marker that was not an original simile, a slogan _save the whales! save the fucking whales! _ before they drown I feel connected to nature in the sense that if I swam below the surface into the depths they would not hesitate to rip my limbs apart making me apart of the collage i am insignificant compared to her beauty a hodgepodge of flesh and bone she took the carver's knife and carefully made her masterpiece maybe there will come a time when I can smear mud over my veins and turn my bloodstream into foggy mornings and rushing waterfalls ochre sap and streams like a frantic stampede ice blocks of hurt and soil that reflects the solar system our blood and her blood bleed different colors her organs are clouds and ours are lungs that take and take and break crushing life in the diaphram of piston pumps oil choke-holds, slippery, slimey humans congrats, we’ve played ourselves! you think the earth likes __ having us crawl all over its surface? like bugs, we are an infestation like birds, we’re gonna fly right off the edge
so go ahead, cut that tree
dear santa:
this year for christmas I want a bottle of Prozac. 80 milligrams.
i’ve been good this year, i’ve been safe scrubbed my hands, used all my clorox wipes on my legs and arms and tongue just in case i bleached my teeth and hair and drank the sanitizer Kool-aid so please give me those happy pills, Saint Nick
| this one’s a bit short. I might edit it later? Hope everyone’s having a wonderful holiday! |
(I don't usually do this, but this time I'd like to put a disclaimer of sorts. I do not personally struggle with schizophrenia, so if I've written anything that comes across as ignorant, malicious, or misinformed, please correct me. It is in no way my intention, and I admire and appreciate you all very much... I'd also like to note that this is a jumble of words coming straight from my brain, with very little editing. So, if schizophrenia/mental health in general/swearing is triggering for you, please don't read this. It's also pretty long, so apologies for that)
schizo/phrenia
DEFINITION: "_shouting, crying, unusual babbling, mothers screaming: what the fuck is wrong with you?! Crying, metallic tastes in the mouth, seeing creatures, paranoia, crying, crying, __crying. __Blood on walls painted in peanut butter and jelly from your little sister's lunch. A little girl sobbing, sitting on the rug that looks an awful lot like her, but __can't __be her. Your little sister wears socks in the house, always. Her feet are bare. The girl, clearly an alien, screeches: __Zach! __Clearly scared-your sister, clearly scared. Of you. What's gotten into you? Guilt, shame. But what if those are crocodile tears? What if she's faking? She's not real, you aren't real, you aren't real. Sleeping in the corner of your room because there are eyes all over your bedsheets, spying on you. Your mom- or maybe a mom, sniffling quietly at three A.M. Four A.M, you're still here, five A.M.-still here, six A.M. Asking yourself A.M. I human? God, maybe? Something else, likely. You have to be, because you don't feel real. Slinging a backpack over your shoulder as a mother stares at you with worried eyes and tells you to have a good day, love. Walking to school-in class, breaking a fountain pen third period because you're sure it's a bomb. Ticking, clicking, ticking, clicking-Zach's best friend, who sits next to you, goes: _what the hell, Zach?_The teacher, pissed because you did that on purpose, sends you to the bathroom. Yellowed vomit residue and sentient toilet bowls, swirling angrily, crying, crying, __crying. __Making excuses for yourself because you messed up, badly, and you can't handle feeling guilt, so is it even genuine? Of course not, but you want it to be, so you write a letter. You tell the world how badly you messed up and everyone calls you a dick for your mistake. Zach is crying again. You wanted people to side with you, to give you reassurance you __aren't __a horrible person, but at the same time you want them all to hate you-hate the way you acted, because you deserve it, deserve to feel horrible even if none of it will matter in a few years. Feelings are a double-edged sword, you freeze as you remember the kid in science class who wants you dead. He wants the metal blade in your throat, and if you're being honest with yourself, you want it, too. You go to the counselor, because that's what she's there for, to help you feel safe, but as you pull open the door handle and enter the room choking itself in lavender incense, cheap, probably half-off at Walmart, and see the middle-aged woman with thick square frames and a messy bun, you know she's not really a counselor. She asks you: __what's wrong, Zach? __And you smile weakly at the woman and reply that you just need some staples, thanks, Mrs. Green. You exit the room and crawl back to your house and rot. Rotting, screaming, your mother, your father, friend, teachers, speaking to you, all at once, and you beg them, beg them to shut up. Crying, crying, crying, trying desperately to find a synonym for crying, crying, crying-lying, feeling guilty again because the boy with a ring of mountain dew around his lips, who's _supposed _to be Zach's best friend, is yelling at you at lunch again, yelling at you for texting the girl he likes, calling you a bad friend, but you only texted her because she's in love with God! You've seen it-seen the cross around her neck-and that's what you are, isn't it? God? You cringe as he walks away, upset, and as you watch him leave warily, you panic because he must want to kill you now. Classmates calling you slurs, you won't say them because they're unholy, classmates calling you an addict, elderly family members calling you an attention whore. The girl Zach's friend had a crush on walks up to you and says she'll pray for you. You tell her to fuck off but what you really mean is thank you because she's the first person to pray for you beside yourself and praying for yourself is selfish-and you want it all to stop-and the girl walks away, weeping, and your classmates glare at you and tell you to kill yourself and you glare back because you can't tell if it's really your classmates who said that or the voices screaming at you whenever you try to eat, convincing you your mom is trying to poison you, and you say: "that's stupid" but you can't help but believe them. Counting things, assigning them numbers because numbers are the only thing that can't __lie __to you at this point. Reading the Bible in the kitchen while a mother washes the dishes-getting angry because she sprayed soapy water on it accidentally. One morning your parents corner you in your bedroom and say they're worried about you. You tell them not to, because you're not Zach anymore, you're the ruler of the universe-you are grass blowing in the wind-you are anxiety in a pair of parents as they tell their son to get in the car. You're arguing, you find yourself in a car, find yourself breathing in oil, dripping down your lungs, tire tracks under your eyes, shoving your body into the exhaust pipe, exhaling along with the engine, find yourself with the adults who have taken you an awfully long way. Unusual babbling, promising you're fine! You'll stop acting like a maniac! The man driving sighs, parking in front of a mental hospital, and you find yourself sniffing pill dust, staring into the gooey, lost eyes of your fifty-year-old roommate, moments of clarity, a funny sounding word called therapy, the urge to die, the urge to live, crying, crying, crying in the middle of the night because you remember how you forgot your parents loved you, forgot you loved them, feeling guilty again, feeling ridiculous and idiotic for ever thinking badly of them-stupid, stupid, stupid, you aren't __God. __You're a boy, and suddenly the medication you're taking and the sobs of your mother, hacking up her very __soul __for you in a hospital chair, reminds you that your name isn't God, it's Zach. And you realize you like being Zach much more than God. _
The Rabbit wants me dead. I know this from the wire scars that burn into the back of my neck, angry and itchy. I keep seeing his long ears, tufts of snow white fur. His heart ripped out with a knife. His heart ripped out with a knife. Ripped out with a knife. Blade hot and sticky and bloody.
Itchy-my neck was terribly itchy. My skin felt like the bars to a prison cell and my soul was the prisoner, begging to be let out. The screeching was drowning my ears. Who was screeching? What was lurching out my throat, raw and sore? Words etched into stone that scream LET ME OUT.
L E T M E O U T
Rabbits are not cuddly. They claw and bite and scratch. They have sickly eyes that cut through to your bones like razor blades. They trap you in the tunnels of your mind until you’re lost, stuck in a winding road where the men in cloaks and oversized trousers force powdery pills down your throat. Down, down, down the rabbit hole. Rabbits.
Holes. Holes had led me to the Queen's domain, to the Queen's Court. Splotches of crimson staining her pristine floors. Her walls. Her face. Her eyes. Her eyes only see the blood of her own bursted heart, and the blood of the Man. With the axe. Cutting and cutting and cutting and killing. A blade with a velvet handle, elegantly carved. Carving isn’t hard if you’re a wood cutter, but the Carpenter has long since gone crazy. In the deck of cards, he is the Cannibal. Twirling tendons on his fork. Some people are worse. They eat you in other ways, chew at your insides until you are a husk. A dirty rag, a toy. They take your innocence and then accuse you of branding EAT ME to your chest.
E A T M E
Rabbits are skittish, but not as much as little girls running from shadow puppets with fluffy tails and twitchy noses. A sheep with eyes like empty pill bottles comes into my castle and tells me that I'm hopeless. That I had let out the worst part of myself that night. The prisoner. I craved feeling the coppery taste between my fingernails, sinking them into my jail cell.
There's this girl. She looks just like me. Frayed blonde hair, broken eyes, freckles that scatter my face like sores. I see her sometimes, and I know she's trying to replace me. Trying to take my skin off my bones till they're as bare as a deer carcass melting into the moss. My arm itches. I'm pretty sure it's bleeding. I think I'm dying.
i took my Faber-Castell oil pastels and pulled out the wine red coloured chalk
scratching an angel outline on the asphalt around the flaking raccoon skin on the
side of the road. the muddy tire tracks painted his furry dead
body squished into the gravel like a canvas smeared with organs, flipped inside out for all to see.
melted charcoal black eyes, suffocated me, until my pulse flooded my ears
inhuman screams drenched the milky early morning haze, the sandpaper tongue of death licking
his matted fur clean. i crumpled under the weight of the corpse on the side of the road until i
snapped the pastel in my hands and got chalky pigment all over my aching fingers and breathed in
the rot of sadness through my lungs, waiting for the ambulance that would never come.
pressure metal edge pressing into my skin my blood is like a currency ten cuts pays off the shame
my veins are a gold mine
i want to dig until i see my bone pinch the pad of my thumb watch it drip down and pull out a bandaid
red strings cut cross my arms my wrists my legs
tying thread one stitch, two stitches one cut, two cuts
bloody stains in between my fingernails pepper coals stinging my wounds stick that needle in my eye hope to die
red pooling onto my palm while I'm sitting on the bathroom floor ankles sprawled out on the tiles about to snap in half
embroidered scars needles or knives or scissors whatever makes my skin rip apart crying into my towel
i pretend they're papercuts
i pretend they're blemishes from sewing excuses into my throat
the debt is paid once i bleed enough
(wrote this for my friend who struggles with self harm. So glad they're doing better <3)
She was dead. Hatter was hiccuping as tears poured down his face, cradling her chopped up body in his wrinkly arms. The hatchet was tossed to the side, blood still hot, sticking on the silver blade. I fumbled with the tea vial desperately, trying to do something, _anything, _that would fix this. But it was hopeless. It was all hopeless. I was never getting out of here. Never. And now Isabella’s dead. She's dead. My head felt foggy, the sickly scent of roses flooding my nostrils. Hatter was still hunched over Isabella, grasping absent-mindedly for the chisel under his woodworking desk. I wanted to scream. I wanted to yell until my vocal chords begged for remorse and my throat bled. Instead I just stood there, trembling. The broken marionette puppets, crumpled to the ground, stared at me as Hatter turned around.
"You," I said, jabbing my finger at him, voice hoarse, "killed her."
His pupils had finally stopped spinning. He was curled up, scared and speechless, like a terrified piece of prey. Like a mouse. He looked just like his granddaughter. I knelt down and ripped his hat off him. He opened his cracked lips to speak, but no words came out. Rubbing my tears off my face, I glared down at him.
"I didn't, I didn't, I didn't, I didn't!" he whimpered.
“You did!” I croaked, “it’s all your fault!”
“I’m sorry Alice I’m sorry Alice I’m sorry Alice I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry sorry sorry Alice,” Hatter screeched.
“That doesn’t-that doesn’t _mean anything! _Nothing you ever say means anything! Sorry won’t bring her back! Listening to the Queen won’t bring her back! Nothing-“ the lump in my throat stopped me from yelling further.
“I’m sorry, please, please I’m-_please I don’t want to die want to die don’t kill me please I don’t want to die. Die? Die, she’s dead she’s dead she’s dead dead dead, she’s dead!” _He said, sobbing.
And that’s when I knew that, while he was aware he did something bad, he didn’t understand why it was bad, like a dog being scolded for the first time. His mind was too fragmented to ever really realise he’d just killed his own granddaughter.
So, not knowing what else to do, I swallowed hard, shoving the nausea and the fear into the pit of my stomach, and smashed the tea vial to the stone floor.
Hatter lunged for it, his gnarled fingers stretching like the roots of a tree, still bloody and cut from the hatchet. The vial crashed to the ground, glass shattering and flying across the room.
Not being able to bear looking at her mangled body, I ran.
my apple pie is burning in the oven the golden butter is seeping into the dough the folds of the crust move like waves in the heat and as i pull it out with my maple dotted mittens and tug at the sleeves of my wool woven sweater i can feel the bubbling warmth envelop my hands and face and can't help but think that later when the chilly air bites my fingers reminding me of the blanket of winter and when the ashes of the fire flutter to the ground curling like blackened orange peels when marshmallows drip off of sticks and cider spills out of solo cups when the leaves wave hello as they drift over the air That this will be a season that’s worth it
i am a scarecrow. stuff me with straw 'till i gouge out my pinpricked eyes and vomit up my insides. use your needle and sew my fraying lips together because i can't breathe. place me in a pumpkin patch and scream in surprise when i lie dead on your wooden stick. watch as i tear at my own hands picking and picking and picking. can't you hear the cawing of the inky monsters pecking at me? why am i terrified of them when they're supposed to be scared of me? i am a ragdoll with no direction Dorothy's scarecrow got a brain but I just wish someone would explain mine. i am a scarecrow with nothing but dirt and splinters and weeds i am a scarecrow.
And the man with the noose tied 'round his head, the man with the letter at the end of his bed, the man with raw smiles on his wrists he said:
Sever my bone, the sinew rip apart my flesh graciously, God has promised my last breath
This disfigured and bloody hindrance inside my chest has finally beat itself to death
