embryo

i never knew i could disappear so completely. keep my head down. work hard, and fast. retreat into myself; play dead if necessary.

so i let my breathing slow to nothing. answer in simple yeses and nos. don’t disagree, don’t elaborate, goodbye and hello. shove my hands in my pockets, and cross the street with my head held low.

so i lock the door, and curl up like a little embryo. i won’t make a sound, just drown myself in sharp lavender tea. live off leftovers for weeks.

i sip my coffee, and watch january waves lap against my bare feet. wear flannels and sweaters like armour, and give you just what you asked for. cardboard and sweet.

but now my fingers are callused. i tick off boxes on blue paper and cry, cry, cry, because god i miss the waiting room. but you hate the sound, of course you do.

so i shut my mouth with scotch tape. it burns a bit, and the adhesive never sticks. my lips taste like school glue.

why don’t you love me?

i think maybe / you’re leaving me / i think maybe / floating icebergs and cloud castles a billion miles away from me / i think maybe / i’m nothing without you there to validate me / my heart sinking through the floorboards / because why don’t you love me? / vanishing into the walls with the hope i used to always carry on me /  never to be seen again, i guess, maybe / because it feels like a disappearing kind of day / because my chest is empty and the world is on fire and i sort of want to ruin something, okay / so better start with my health / and i miss the things you made me feel / more than i actually miss you yourself.


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the slumber party

trigger warning: self-harm. need to talk? crisis lines are here.

let’s make up secret languages, and i’ll bury my head in your shoulder trying to cut out the world from existence. self-harm thoughts and little wounds, but it’s all right. i keep band-aids on me at all times.

let’s stay up late or watch tv or get lost in the forest. and when you’re not looking, i’ll sneak out back and let the panic crush my skull, because i can’t handle this. all right? but it’s okay. i don’t want you to know.

and i’ll fall apart without you. because i love you, which means i don’t even know who i am without you. which means i’ll crumble the very second i start to doubt you. 

and you know, when i was a kid, i used to keep the broken things. odd socks, and shattered mugs, and containers without lids. tuck them in drawers in my room, and tell them they were worthy. because maybe, if i could surround something with the same love i wished i could give myself, it would fix me.

i remember, how i used to feel so empty. like a hollowed-out seashell, left behind as some souvenir for another shattered reality. and to be honest, some days, i still feel that way.


This seriously isn’t about anyone in particular–it’s mostly just about something I do in general. When I meet a person who makes me feel loved or accepted, I guess I latch onto them really easily, because of how terrified I am of them leaving. Also, that story about me as a kid is true–I really did used to do that. 

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ash

and / i can’t breathe / and my stomach twists / and my capillaries fracture / and it all crumbles slowly / and i know what you think but can you really trust them? honestly? / and my chest shatters awkwardly / and my body catches fire / and now i am dust in the wind / and i’ll try to scream / but i don’t think anyone’s gonna hear it / and i am broken-down bones and deserted lungs /  i am the epitome of trying to pour from an empty cup / and you must be so proud because / you did it / you really / fucking / did it / broke me apart / tore me down / fallen trees and power’s out / and all i want in the world right now is to get you out. 


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