myopia

there’s a buzzing in my ear, so distant i can barely feel it at all, and that sinking in my gut: it’s not going away any time soon, is it? there’s nothing i can do to stop it, as the quicksand envelops me.

i eat it for breakfast. run into it at work, watch it slither through the empty spaces on the midterm exam, study it and worship at its paper mache hands, because this is all i know how to be.

but it’s fun! and it’s great! and normal people get obsessed too, it’s just a passing phase! i think my mindset’s just all wrong, but i’m sure that’ll change.

it brushes my hair, and follows me home, burns out my headphones with a dull, myopic drone. pins me up against the wall in a desperate chokehold, and it won’t stop until my eyes are tired, and cold.

but if i run fast enough, the pounding in my chest will not be from fear. i’ll get my shit together, and i’ll stop doing this, iron out all my mind’s ugly little creases out into a flat, freshly laundered sheet.

and there’s something i should be doing. someone i was supposed to meet. but it doesn’t matter. this is all there ever was to me, and maybe if i just watch another episode, the universe will quietly burn, burn, burn out to nothing around me.

and by tomorrow, i’ll have forgotten this ever happened. i’ll be alice down the rabbit hole, or maybe sleeping beauty. yeah. i want a castle, and a prince, and some bird friends to wake up to. i want a calendar and a laptop with a fully charged battery, so i can make some fucking sense of this, and teach myself to always be wary.

of pretty things that make my heart swell with pride. of new people, and new things, and that look i get in my eyes. because this thing is perfect. i want to drown in its holy-water hues. i want to fight wars at its side. i want to not be myself for just one. more. night.


So, my whole life I’ve had this really bad tendency to get super fixated and obsessed with things, for potentially years at a time, and then suddenly get bored of them out of nowhere. And in part, that fixation has been what’s allowed me to work really hard, or learn about things in a really in-depth way, and pursue things without any doubts. But also… yeah, not always the best habit, because oftentimes I can’t tell if a new interest is something I really want to pursue long-term, like writing, or if it’s just a passing phase, because I never can tell the difference until the feeling fades away altogether. Sometimes I do that with people, too–and it feels really awful and sad, because these people who I thought I loved with my entire heart and soul and wanted to be a major part of my life turn out to just have been another obsession. And once the feeling fades, there’s not much I can do, you know? Like it or not, I have no choice but to accept how I feel.

It’s exhausting and frustrating and makes me feel like I’m not in control of my own mind at all, or anything, like I’m just totally at its whims, which hasn’t been the best thing either. I’m not sure if there’s a medical diagnosis for that, I’m still really figuring out how to manage this whole thing, but I honestly just thought it was this sign I was nothing more than a lazy, terrible person who could never be trusted with anything for so long, and it’s taken a lot of thinking to realize that it’s just that my brain works a bit different from other people’s, and takes more effort to manage.

Lots of love,

Lorna

seashell

i’ve always loved the beach, and how gorgeous it looks when wind whips through the trees, as the ice-cold waves crash, and roar, and soak through my jeans.

or how sometimes, if i close my eyes, i can pretend i’m the only person left in the universe. just for a little bit. scream at the sky until i’ve got nothing left to give.

which is just… a really melodramatic way of saying that i don’t think i can do this. and i’m curling into myself, i’m rotting into the ground, and holding onto history by a thread.

so i’ll hold it like a sad, half-rotten seashell, in my frozen palms. and please, just give me something to write. anything. a wilting sonnet, or a sleepy haiku.

and pull me back to shore. because the water is rough, and cold, and i just want to go home. where everything was safe, and warm, and everything makes sense.

but i don’t even know where that place is anymore.

orange juice

i’m good at this. reframing it; making the best of a bad deal. call it a coping mechanism. call it lessons learned in therapy, taken miles too far and tie it off with a nice neat bow. box it up, in a thousand half-formed narratives. take them out on recycling day, don’t watch as they go.

i know how to do this: rub the sleep from my eyes, chug a cup of coffee and scroll through my phone all morning, hoping for escape. but it never goes away, and my mind just keeps spinning, and spinning…

but it’s all right because i’ve done this a million times; before reshaped the story, like it’s wet clay in my palms. and if i ever make it big, you’ll find this someday, won’t you? and you’ll rip it to shreds, unless you don’t, because i’m better.

because shame slips easy down my throat, like orange juice; hates me so much more than you do, as i wrap myself up in barbed wire fence and lock myself in the confines of my room.

but i don’t know what i’m talking about. i don’t have a clue. so maybe it’s fine. maybe i could settle for this, maybe… maybe the sounds of suburbia could lull me off to dreamland, and i’d be good. i’d be fine.

yellow

it’s not supposed to be pretty, or poetic, it’s not bleeding roses or your vintage aesthetic. it’s not slim, and easily digestible. because sometimes, depression is just lying around the house all day, and wearing the same outfit until you can’t stand the feel of it on your skin.

sometimes it’s wilting yellow leaves, late nights, and tattered deadlines surrounding me at all sides. they’re closing in. and why is it, that no matter how hard i try, i always end up back here in the closet, with my skeletons and treasure troves?

or running for my life, until the clock strikes midnight and the cycle repeats anew. i talk in my sleep; dissect stories like butterfly wings. i don’t say i miss you.

just curl into myself like a scared little kid, and hide under the blankets, for years on end, waiting for happily ever after to find me. to recessitate my withered hopes and dreams with a perfect kiss.

because i just want the war to end. i want rippling green grass, and wounded fireflies, fluttering around my head like a crown. a cute white mini-dress, or whatever. and god, i know it’s cheesy, and pathetic.

but some cliché in my life is long overdue.

casket

and then, there are the bad days. there is a crystal blue sky, and the wind beneath my wings. i don’t give a shit. i am tired, and apathetic, and cold.

and i don’t move, don’t breathe, don’t do anything at all. just sit there on the sidewalk, watching the rain fall. because my brain is like this sometimes; latching on to a turn of phrase like a dog with a bone, until there’s nothing left to give, and the blood smeared on my palms is always my own.

so paint me like a casket, strong mahogany; rotten on the inside, though. shade me soft, like the ruins of an empire that never could be. like shattered potential and spoiled wine, i’m your perfect little baby.

cast my statue in 24-carat gold, and mount my broken, strangled words on a silver platter if you want to. melt my bones like candles, and throw a party for a girl who doesn’t really exist. and i don’t know how much longer i can take this. but here we fucking go.