blackout

12am, i scribble half-formed lines on the pages of an old journal. time isn’t real anymore, you know that just as well as i do. but i’ll keep trying, i’ll keep fighting. even when the psychology backs you.

it’s just… i’m getting tired of the late nights, the long drives, the biting my lip. so sparks flicker and fade out in my karaoke eyes, and if i’m really finished… maybe it’s for the best this time.

maybe winter’s finally got me in its grasp. maybe the colourful lines and the spinning tracks just keep going, and going, and i can’t breathe, because twisted nostalgia has got nothing on me. and oh, i feel the snapping wolves, i feel the razor-blade teeth.

and the sticky tree-sap, getting under my fingers, pulling me down to the floor. but you don’t get it.

if i go to sleep, i’m not gonna be myself anymore.


I’ve been struggling a lot with burnout of late. I’m kinda in the perpetual state of just-barely-not-giving-up most of the time, have been for years, so it’s not new to me, but when I wrote this, about two weeks ago, it was pretty rough. A lot of my writing, and especially poetry, is really tied up in a lot of dark, bad feelings–and I learned how to write during some of the worst times in my life, mental health wise. So like it or not, my work habits surrounding it have been hugely influenced by depression and anxiety.

Sometimes, writing has really helped… and other times, it’s just an excuse to keep myself up late, and worry all the time, and paralyze myself with indecision. Which I really resent–because it’s the one thing in my life I thought would never be weaponized against me, by my own brain albeit. This safe, good thing turned rotten and bad. But it’s a constant battle, and sometimes it just gets… really exhausting.

Weirdly, revamping the blog has made me feel a lot better about this stuff, though–I think I just needed a new frame of mind. I’ve been thinking a lot about what I want to do with this site, and I’m really excited, and feeling a bit better.

Lots of love,

Lorna

inertia

my wrists snap, and crackle like the static on tv. i scroll through amazon for hours, looking for some miracle cure i can’t afford, to give my life meaning.

and my stomach churns, and my hands flap around aimlessly. i overthink what i see in the mirror, until i don’t know what’s left and what’s right, and it all just sorta blends together. so i run for my life, and i crash into the ground. nick my finger on a bread knife; wake up feeling like i’ve just come back from hell.

and i just kinda… sit there for hours. splash my face with cold water; brew some more tea. scroll through instagram, and daydream about money. about having an apartment, and i don’t know, paying my bills? filing my tax return, putting on some songs, and making myself a mediocre dinner. maybe going on a late-night run to a nearby costco afterwards.

because it means i’m okay. it means i’m all right. and maybe the stars are fading away, maybe the traffic lights flicker and groan, but i survived. and that’s all i can hope for, you know?

and tired, and sad, and cold are not excuses. i have to keep going, i have to do this. but i just can’t stop scrolling. or watching sitcoms on my phone. i collapse on my bed, and wrap myself up in blankets, wishing my ghosts could just leave me alone.

i push a broken car up a hill, all on my own. chug three cups of coffee on the long drive home, and fall asleep at the wheel. the sirens pulse as it all fades out; this can’t be real…

smoke

coffee always tastes like a bonfire to me. it slips down my throat, leaving a bitter aftertaste, makes my heart race and palpitate. my jaw clenches, and the back of my skull throbs. but this shit happens sometimes, you know?

you shatter on the cork floor, or stare into the mesmerizing light of the refrigerator. use a whole box of tissues, and cry into your dinner. you watch parks and rec on your phone, for ten minutes or five hours. i don’t know, does it matter?

because i’m just tired. and angry, and lost. so i’ll lash out, like a child, trapped inside ceramic. can you blame me? can you save me? can you get me out of my head, even just for a little bit? give me neat rules and clear definition, tuck me into bed with a cup of chamomile tea, at 9:23pm. exactly.

and when i wake up, blood will cling to the tips of my fingers like the morning dew, and i don’t fucking know what to do. you whisper sweet nothings in my ear, tell me it’ll all get better if i just listen to you. but i’m not a kid anymore. i know it’s not true.