when i was younger

trigger warning: suicidal thoughts, mention of blood, self-harm, and just some generally heavy topics. please be safe while reading, and if you need to talk to anybody, find a crisis line in our area here.

when i was younger, i used to smear blood on book pages. so whenever i read through my old copy of harry potter and the dealthy hallows, there’s still reddish stains to remind me of it. remind me what a mess i am. remind me that i don’t know why this happened, or who did this, and maybe it’s just genetics, but if it’s just genetics, i still don’t understand what did i do to deserve this? when i was younger, i used to think a lot about what other people thought. and sometimes, i would spend hours just imagining how much they hated me. how much of a burden i was. pushing myself down further and further, wondering how long it would take to turn to dust. and other things i still do, like aimless google searches, shouting out into oblivion. and crying after school. and hurting myself between answering emails and text messages. when i was younger, i used to slam my head against the wall with tears streaming down my cheeks just begging the world to make it over. when i was younger, there was a knot of feelings in my chest, and i didn’t know what to do with it. so i learned to crash and burn, and spark, and hiss, and go off, and maybe growing up turned me into some kind of bomb. and maybe i’m tired of constantly drifting through the danger zone. because i still do it. and then… i got older. and then i fell apart in so many different ways and clicked a couple puzzle pieces together. and listened to songs that made me sob my eyes out on the floor because all the emotions come on like a tsunami, and i’m not really sure what’s happening to me. and…  then i got older. and i tried to remember what hope felt like, and i’m still not entirely sure. and some days, it’s hard to believe i am not seven years old anymore. but i am not seven years old anymore. i am older. and braver. and smarter. and stronger. strong enough to admit that i’m fucked up. strong enough to try and deal with it. strong enough, in the way you become after years of trying to pick yourself up off the ground and finally sort of managing it. so much stronger. and maybe i can write myself a place where i’m ok. and maybe, maybe, someday i’ll get there.

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it is time to read books that are not about dying

i don’t know what i’m doing. it’s 11p.m. and i’m up late writing for the seventh time this week waiting for my eyelids to slam closed like my head is really just a prison. because i’m nothing to you at this time of night and i guess that’s what appeals to me more than anything. i don’t know what i’m doing and is that all right? i don’t know how to do this. i’m long past this deadline but i don’t know what i’m supposed to write to make the world seem brighter because the words assemble soldiers on  my tongue and then evaporate the second i reach for them. it’s time to read books that are not about dying, but i don’t know how to be someone beyond my mind because no matter how hard i try to pull and stretch my memory like silly putty, i can’t remember a time when it was simple. and happy. i don’t know how to get over you because the honest truth is, i’ve never gotten over anybody. it is time to read books that are not about dying because god, it’s getting sickening. because this isn’t something i’m choosing. no. choosing is when you know what your options are. choosing is being presented with a menu in your fluent language and told to order. but… every menu in my mind keeps flashing on off on off on off neon lights overloaded hard drive what i’m trying to say is, i don’t know what it means to be ok. i don’t know what it means to completely trust somebody. i don’t know what it means to be held in your arms without the slightest tinge of fear you’ll slip away. and on the good days i am flying i am flying i am flying i am so much more than all right. but on the bad days, i barely feel like a human being anyway. it is time to read books that are not about dying, but i’m watching you walk in slow motion and i don’t understand half the words you’re saying and i guess this is how i’ve gotten pretty good at vague responses and lip reading. i’m six years old inside and maybe i always will be, but i guess there are worst things to be. fingers attacking skin slowly pulling myself like a rag doll apart from the seams again. mental breakdown on the couch because i have to take a picture of myself but i don’t want to see. i don’t want to see. i spend the whole afternoon taking pictures anyway, trying not to scream at the idea of being seen crumpled like a paper airplane on the driveway. i don’t want to see. and sometimes, the bravest thing i do all day is look anyway.

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