the empty days

trigger warning: implied self-harm

and it’s on nights like these, when the empty feeling comes for me. when i cry my eyes out, and i don’t feel better. and i lock myself in the darkness of my closet, and i stay there.

when i want to scream, like the world is ending. scream, until my throat finally melts under the red-hot pressure. and my fingertips wither like dying flowers at the keyboard, and i can’t do this anymore.

and the walls press in around me. and my shaking hands want to kill me, and it’s not that i hate myself. it’s that i don’t think i can breathe if i keep this in any longer.

and i scream. and i cry. and i know i shouldn’t do it. shouldn’t take out this feeling on my skin. and i know it’s not productive, and i know i’m three months clean of this for a reason…

but i just can’t make myself care anymore.

Today has really sucked, honestly. I can’t remember the last time I felt this stressed out. I’m getting ready for my podcast to launch, and I just downloaded a new audio editor that should let me make some pretty epic spoken word tracks, and I started my French course at school and was emailing people almost nonstop all day—and I guess it was just too much, and I ended up having a whole breakdown a couple hours ago. I guess that’s the kind of feeling this poem is supposed to capture–this chaos and pain and overwhelm, all coming together way, way too fast. So yeah. I hope you all are doing well, throughout this whole mess of a month–and I hope that things get better soon.


i don’t know what to say

trigger warning: self-harm and suicide mention. need to talk to anyone? resources are here.

it’s been ages since i’ve really written poetry.

and i don’t know. things have been crazy. and every day, my life gets harder. and every day, my stack of things to do grows taller. and my head starts to ache. and if i stare in the mirror for long enough, i’ll always find another aspect of myself to hate.

so i guess it’s easier. to just spend hours lying in bed, sweaty clothes and tired eyes, and burying myself in internet culture. because i don’t know what to write anymore. 

and did i tell you about the other day? about how i cried for most of the night. and i did two twenty-question math tests, back to back, and i started writing a suicide note, and i thought i might pass out, and i studied for six hours straight, and everything i tried to write came out underlined in red.

and did i tell you about how i missed therapy? because i’m sick, and i’m tired, and you know when you start forgetting appointments scheduled weeks in advance that you just don’t care anymore.

did i tell you that where there used to be all these feelings in my chest, now there’s mostly just… dust, and sand, and emptiness? tell you about how much i miss the idea of being carefree and innocent, even though i don’t think in my entire life i’ve ever felt like that? tell you about watching disney movies and needing every second of it?

did i tell you that i cut myself? that i don’t think i’ll ever really stop doing it?

or did i mention that my drafts folder is empty, and my fingers are bloody, and… i don’t know the words for this anymore.

I think this is a definitely very experimental style, but I’m proud of it anyhow I guess. I think I wrote this a couple weeks ago, in the depths of a mental breakdown, but at that kind of point where you know you need to write something, and in that moment… that was this.