it is august 16th, 2019, and i am officially a mess

after flatsound, kind of. a little bit.

trigger warning: self-harm. if you need to talk to anyone, no matter what you’re going through, find someone to talk to in your area by clicking on the word here.

and you call it depression. but it’s not depression. it’s just… a box, i guess. a box, nestled softly in my chest. and it’s august 16th, and i am officially a mess. and i am officially the kid who doesn’t know whether or not her therapist is telling the truth about this. and it’s just that even though i feel like shit right now, i know in a moment i’ll be over it. i just don’t know how to be okay with the fact that i don’t want to hurt myself today. and you can call it depression, but it’s not depression, because i still want to live it’s just for a moment, i am the empty room and every lightbulb in my head has short circuited. and you call it depression, as i hug a pillow and speak in sandpaper-voices. and you call it mental illness, and that feels about right, because right now, i just feel so fundamentally sick. so maybe i will cough up my problems. and maybe i will fall apart in your arms.. and maybe someone will fucking think long enough to bring me flowers, because i don’t think you understand that this is hard. having a brain that wants you dead. not knowing how to touch you without falling apart. and not even knowing how to speak. and living in the dark, because outside is worse, or maybe it’s just your head. or maybe it’s just your stupid fucking broken heart. it’s hard. because this is war. only… this is the kind that no one gives you medals for.

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today the sun rose, and the sun fell. i didn’t ask you sure how one pocket of time can feel so tiny and yet so massive, and maybe it’s all about perspective. today, it’s hard to write this without it feeling like i’m pushing my way up through sticky honey and the fog of closed curtains broken flash drives and half-asleep panic attacks, but i’m trying. today, i decided i would try and drown my feelings. only then i decided to fold them; try to find symmetry out of the chaos and make sense out of everything and it didn’t really work, but i did write poetry. and today, i wasn’t the person i want to be. because i’m never the person i want to be. today, i think my fingers shook on the keyboard with the quiet electric shock of my anxiety. today, i think maybe you’re not who i think you are and that scares me. and it’s all lies and empty faces. and these words do i mean it is this really my voice do i really mean it what am i saying what role am i trying to fill again what is this? what is this? and will you still love me in the morning? and was i good enough to be worth your time? maybe i’m not good enough. i spread my arms out like the page of a book and i turn myself into your story. and why am i not enough to be your everything? and today i try to wrap my arms around myself until the words stifle my mouth. i curl up into a corner and my heart is one massive explosion of charcoal and screaming and my eyes which are always kind of closing. the stars are shaking above me. and i want to be ok but i’m not but i’m trying. i’m trying. i’m trying. i hope that means something.

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