I’m watching my friends and colleagues thrive and achieve,
I’m happy for them, I really am.
But I wish I could be there celebrating with them,
Instead of here in this hole, trying to scratch my way out.
I see them running past me
Towards the finish line
While I’m being dragged backwards by my feet.
Humiliated, pained, desperate to be free.
This is where broken people are.
This is where they wipe their tears away
And put on a new face;
A shiny, glossy mask.
They meet other
Shiny, glossy people and exchange superficial pleasantries.
This is for the people afraid of being alone;
Afraid of being marooned –
By a willfully blind puppet master.
They look for another,
Convincing themselves that they are the ones in control.
This is where the hopeful people are.
This is where the lost people are.
Passing through crowds of people,
But not really seeing a single face.
Trying to both remember and forget,
Wishing they knew now only what they knew then.
Searching for a shard of resemblance
Of a happier time.
This is where she shall drift,
Tw self harm
Remember that blade I took? The one I wanted to take for a long time? I used it. And it was so sharp. It cut deeper than I thought it would. The blood was everywhere. Everywhere. No one else will want me now. You said you were my friend. You said you’d be there for me. And then you fucked me over. Deny as much as you want but you fucked me over. You’re a shitty friend. You’re a shitty person. It’s deeper than I thought. Oh God, it’s deeper than I thought. I can’t stop the blood. Just a light graze leaves a mark. What if I press harder? It doesn’t matter I can’t feel a thing. I can’t stop. Even though purple is usually my favorite, today, right now, it is red. Red is my favorite colour. And I want more. I love red. The colour that flows out of my body. I love it. Let me pull it out until my vision fades; until my there’s nothing more. Until I’m pale and drained. Until I’m dry and decaying. Red is so beautiful. Yet I am not. Take the beauty out of my body. Separate it from my ugly soul. Let the red stain my sheets and let it bring beauty to my surroundings. Drain it from my veins; drain it from my arteries.
17. 17. Seventeen. 10+7. Only 17 of them. Only 17 sources of beautiful red. Maybe more soon. Who knows? Who cares.
Know your worth.
Know that you, just as everyone else, is worthy of love.
Don’t let yourself stay with someone who wants to be with another
When all you want is to be wanted by someone who only wants you.
When she leaves, and you remain as his remaining crutch,
The only shoulder to cry on
You will always be wondering
What if she stayed?
Go ahead and cover the walls of your glass room with pictures of a fantasy.
Paint the insides of your eyelids with what you want to see
And tell yourself that you’re fine. That this is what you wanted.
Look in the mirror and tell yourself that you’re in control
And then force yourself to feel what you think you should feel.
Live in your false comfort.
Dream, imagine, and hope all you want
But know it does not have to be this way.
Not as long as you believe you are worthy.
Tunnelled through my brain
Scratched away at my skull
Hollowed out my insides
Sucked me dry of energy
Burrowed through my marrow
Pierced through my skin.
Now ugly outside as I felt inside,
I ran for shelter.
In the security of open arms and broken silence,
I finally closed my eyes.
Restless, turbulent, but nevertheless, sleep.
In the morning, to my horror, I saw the people around me
I closed my eyes.
This was written after a very vivid dream I had of this happening. I used to be afraid of seeking help because I believed I would hurt the people around me.
Back when we kept pictures in photo albums,
We stored memories behind plastic covers or glass panes.
In fear of misplacing or wrecking them,
We kept them tucked away somewhere safe.
Over time, corners would fold
Edges would crumple or become stained by spilled tea,
But these memories were protected, more or less.
They remained far away. Separate from us.
They remained where they should be – in the past.
Now, in the age of newsfeeds and numbers
They never leave us;
Easily accessible reminders of what we’ve lost.
Photos are crumpled by obsession
Memories are stained by emotion.