trigger warning: mention of medication, self-harm, hopelessness, feelings of depression

i like to pretend that i’m only half real. like a ghost, slipping in and out of myself. i like saying weird things, it makes other people laugh and it makes me feel warm and kinda happy, if happy is that feeling like someone has just flicked on a lightswitch but the lightswitch is in your body. and i like to pretend things, when i’m feeling really dreamy, like that the sky is crumpling gently, wrapping paper revealing the stars, but mostly i just pretend that when i’m writing. every morning i take a small white pill in a yellow tinted bottle that reminds me of a manic stained glass window branded specifically for my kind of crazy, and every afternoon i resent it for doing nothing except making recovering from headaches less easy. every afternoon, i write poetry and sometimes it’s awesome, but sometimes it feels like it’s leading up to nothing. and every afternoon, my parents tell me that the sky is falling, and i believe them, but only barely, and still there are constantly seeds of anxiety, weeds of compulsions and worries i have to pull out of my body. and some nights, i like to sleep with the curtains closed and the windows open, so i can hear the world, and just know that in the morning, when my brain is a little less empty, it’ll still be there for me. but other times, when i’m crying, i throw things, and i barricade the door closed, and i dig my nails into my palms and when you grow up with mental illness i think you grow up learning that broken is all right. and in the night, i just sort of stare at the bleeding roses of my screensaver, and at night, i swear it’s the only time where everything comes together. like every morning, i am a clueless little kid and i’ve grown up by midnight but by midnight it’s time to go to sleep again. and the thing about healing is that it’s the hardest thing you’ll ever fucking do, and the road toward it is longer than any distance you will ever walk again. there is no compass, there is no map, and sometimes you will make progress, and sometimes you will run out of water, and sometimes you will backtrack. and maybe i am guilty of not trying hard enough, but the word poetry is enough to make me sick to my stomach, and that feeling. makes me feel disgusted. and that feeling. makes me want to claw at my skin again, claw at my skin until my body knows that i’m in control of it. and every sunrise means the start of another day spent clawing myself out of a chasm. and at night. it’s like there’s no internet. like the stars have swept away my compulsions. and i’m dying for that. and i’m broken. and i don’t know who broke me, but i do know i’m falling apart for that. and i do know that at some point, something inside me passed the point of no return in the black hole in my soul and let me tell you. that whatever theories they have, about alternate universes beyond the infinite. i’ve technically never found anything to prove them wrong. but so far, all i’ve found is heaviness; glimmers of sleepdust. and the echoes of words, but to me they sound like bullets.

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