Her fingers uncurled
like a flower in bloom
as if beckoning
to touch her.
The lines in
were like a sea
and she hummed
that he would be
when you held the cigarette
between your fingers
that were dwindled down with age,
like embers from flame
did you ever imagine
your family sitting in
hospital rooms and church pews,
lingering over your ashes
boxed up like a pack of smokes,
you withered like flowers
with wheelchairs instead of stems.
they tell me
when i was born
you were afraid
you'd break me,
gentle enough for a cig
but not a baby –
they tell me you loved
the way my head fit in
the palm of your hand.
i watched you
on those last few days,
red and yellow tulips
on the shelf
to brighten up the room;
there's nothing like a death
to bring a family together.
your grand daughter
swelters like pavement
under the summer sun
from the smell.
being a bird means flying (i'm afraid of heights)they tell me to be a phoenix
do not want to go up in
i must admit that
i don’t like the heat;
it’s all too much for
me to handle,
you're bugging metwo hands raised
in silent surrender,
a passive repression
of an infantry;
a brooding anger
stirring in her chest
like a nest of hornets.
with every little
she must have swallowed
a cicada because
she could feel her heart
beat so fast
it buzzed out
a humdrum song.
Nightlights1 - Where art thou, Juliet?
Paloma’s fingers rapped against the window of her best friend’s first floor bedroom three times at first, and when no response came, she tapped out a soft little beat.
The curtains parted to reveal a teenage girl, blonde hair fallen uncombed around her rounded baby face. For a moment, the girl squinted at Paloma before prying open the window with her long, piano player fingers.
It squeaked and complained as it slid up against the wood, the glass rattling. She had one of the oldest houses in the neighborhood, and it showed.
She propped the window up with a wooden slab and stuck her head out, only to be greeted with Paloma’s deep voice, “Juliet, my fair Juliet, there art thou,” she reached up for her Juliet’s hand and brought it to her mouth, gently kissing her knuckles.
“That’s not how it goes, Paloma,
white outShe hated the blizzard
In the way that she
Was apt to speak,
tongue rolling over
snowballs down a hill;
it would cause
PapercutsIt is said god took
seven days to create the world;
it took me less than that
to fall in love with you.
I found myself folding
the poems I wrote for you
into origami hearts
in hopes that
when you saw them
you’d think of me.
Somewhere down the line
I must have lost myself
because the only things
I have left to
remember you by
are paper cuts.
burial groundsher stomach is hollow
like an abandoned church
left decades ago
for a greater faith,
a higher calling.
she is still
Notes on Being Mentally Ill and Fully Aware Of It1. she felt guilty for the things she felt
and the times that she couldn’t control it,
hands clasped together
asking god for freedom,
her empty body;
do not pray for salvation,
2. “go outside and do something,”
says her mother,
as if sunlight would burn away all
of her sorrow;
happiness wasn’t so easy as just
passing through an open door.
3. “a butterfly can’t ever see the beauty of
her own wings,”
they tell her.
“thank you,” she says,
“thank you for telling me i’ll never know
On Having a Wolf Over For Teahe smiled with white sharp points, maw gaping wide to gulp black tea. my tongue swept over cracked lips and i swallowed hard, forcing down the knot that was forming in my throat. he saw the apprehension and snapped his gnashing jaws shut, rattling me. bloodstained paws tapped and clicked against the dirt caked tiles of the kitchen floor, his eyes following me as he moved.
the wolf wove circles and circles and circles around me, circles and circles and circles.
i want you to bleed
i set out my finest shining chipped china, the kind with flowers on the edge.
smiling a sunflower smile, i told myself to remember to pick the briars out of my teeth.
I can see right through you,
my fingers shook and clinked spoons against teacups; masochism tasted sweeter with cream and sugar.
Dear DepressionDear Depression,
I remember so perfectly
The moment I met you.
I was nine years of age,
Wearing a pale pink dress,
My hair curled elegantly,
Falling gently around my shoulders.
And, ha! I thought it would last,
But was I wrong, oh, was I wrong.
I remember the moment someone
Impaled my mind with their opinions
Of who I was as
That, dearest Depression, is the moment
I understood what it meant
And, although it was you,
Who made it hurt,
Who made it throb
And made my thoughts thrash within my
You were my friend.
I turned to you,
my 36-day-long sadness.
I loved you.
But it killed me.
Loving you made me aware
Of what "suicide" was,
And more importantly,
Why is existed.
Loving you brought me happy little moments
Cuts on my thighs.
I listened to you, oh, Depression...
"Find the nearest scarf, rope, thick string"
You'd say these things
Echoing in my bedroom
to the woman who drowned herself in the bathtub.i.
to the woman who drowned herself in the bathtub:
in the magazine I own that published your story,
they blurred out the crime scene photographs,
erasing your face and
the full curves of your breasts.
some part of me wonders
if you would have wanted this,
or if you would have liked for
the public to see you in your final moments,
half-soaked in grey-looking water,
your hair in strings, glued to the porcelain,
eyes closed and mouth gaping,
no breath stirring, no bubbles rising.
sometimes when I look
into the depths of my bathroom sink,
I hear your voice
(or what I imagine it to be--
after all, we never met).
you sit on the edge of the toilet seat,
and chat to me about the weather.
I would give anything to hear your real, living voice,
to ask you what you were thinking
as you lowered yourself
into the tub, queen of the tendrils of steam,
and let your lungs deflate like old birthday balloons.
on the news they say that your autopsy
revealed three quarters
of a bottle o
Thoughts on Growing UpThoughts on Growing Up
I exist more inside of my mind
Than in reality.
I am not sure what I am trying to find.
I think I am trying to lose
I liked the sing song of nursery rhymes
Before I knew the story behind them.
I liked the way the world looked
Before I could read between its lines.
They sound nothing like my little kid lullabies.
Everything seems to remind me
Of how it will never be
What I wished it was.
I thought growing up was supposed to make me stand tall.
My veins are roots
Digging themselves into the ground.
But nobody ever warned me
Of the tree snapping
And I feel like a little kid,
I’ve got bright eyes and scraped up knees.
The scratches so alive and raw.
You use grown up band aids
To cover up your wide eyed dreams.
But I was never one for reality.
Keep your band aids.
I’ll make my own way to the Neverland
That I dreamed of.
I’ll make my own lullaby.
Art and Other WeaponsI use words like an anchor.
Tying myself down to a piece of paper.
In books my heroes used swords,
I use a pen.
I got a mind as violent as a hurricane.
I could use these words to build me a raft.
Because it’s the only weapon I have.
And this pen isn’t what it looks like.
I finally found some sort of voice.
I can use it. These thoughts inside our heads are like bombs, so let’s defuse it.
It’s my torch.
I could burn the shadows, set fire to these fears.
I could use ink instead of tears.
I could use books and poetry like a night light
Because I never liked the dark anyways.
I could use it like a head stone…
Writing about all of my friends who couldn’t find a flash light
I could write and write
Until my skin was stained with lilies made of ink.
I write because I think
And when you think too much there is no escape.
So I say, when everything is too much
Little dream weaver, you have all the pieces.
Arm yourself with a paint brush,
Depression is an OptionDepression is a choice, my dear,
And happiness the same
You choose this illness, don’t you?
What a tragic little game.
Depression is an option, love
Just get up out of bed
Take your tears and worries
And just smile now instead.
Depression is a choice, you see,
And so is suicide.
Just sit back, kick your feet up, dear
Enjoy this perfect ride.
Get over your own standards
Of what everyone should be.
Just smile for once, and maybe
You’ll be living perfectly.
Depression is an illness
That we feel so deep within.
Why would anybody choose
To write poetry on their skin?
Unless there lies a reason, dear,
I would not choose to die.
If depression was an option...
I’d choose to say goodbye.
Trapped WithinShut up!
I don't want to listen anymore.
Get out of my head!
I can't depend on anyone.
There is no way to save me.
If it's up to me to make the voices leave,
I am powerless.
All I can do is try and drown them out with music.
I find myself closing up.
No need to worry anyone.
sometimes pain is the only way to tone things down.
I really hope things change.
Whispers of the sweet release offered by a blade seduce.
I can't though.
I have reasons not to.
I want to be free,
but I can't escape myself.
People are busy.
People are stressed.
People are sick.
Who am I supposed to talk to?
Who could I trust?
I can only cry and crank the volume of my music.
Sleep would be best,
but I can only sleep so much.
Go away go away GO AWAY!!!
and take my pain with you!
I am such an idiot.
HetaliaxDepressed!Reader:Self-Inflicted AchromaticHetalia x Scary! Depressed! Reader: Self-Inflicted Achromatic
I want to be a person just like you, don't you see?
I want to be a person who is still being "me"
A tired sigh escaped your lips. You were just so damn tired. The other countries said that you, (f/n) or (c/n), was scarier than Russia himself. But of course, you have lived 2500 years with wars and bloodshed always trailing after you. You just really want to be happy. But all those wars and blood imprinted on your mind, you really just released off a dark (a/c) aura and a stoic atmosphere.
It really would be nice but I'm paying a price
'Cause I'd really, not be me and that would not suffice
You asked yourself, "I know my face doesn't show my pain. But isn't it obvious in my eyes? I'm lonely and hurt" You rubbed your numb (s/c) wrist, yesterday's cuts still had a colorless ache to it. You picked your silver knife, twirling it around watching the others argue. The said knife is the one you also use to cut yourself.
A dream which
An Angel's Promise'Thou art mine,
And so thou shall remain.'
I will not let you have any other before me,
Nor can there be any after.
For it is your soul that I have shared
And it is your soul that I do take.
Your worship is the blood that flows through me.
Your praise is the heart that pumps life into my veins.
I have accepted that which is torn;
And if you are not whole before me,
Then by my will and word,
You shall be made whole.
So fear not this frigid world,
Though its cold bites deeply into your flesh.
I shall take that which has been torn from you
And weep life into it,
Until only warmth remains.
For thou art already mine,
And so thou shall remain.
For My PeopleAs far as I can recall:
I did not ask to be birthed
Into a cycle of stagnation.
I did not ask to be told,
That my dreams are achievable;
Only to see them limited by the scope of reality.
I did not ask for a failing system,
Passed unto me by half-dead corpses wearing suits.
Nodding eagerly at one another,
As they wait for an inevitable death.
This I did not ask for,
And I am certain that most of you did not either.
But it is for that reason,
And for that reason alone, I say:
That it is up to us,
We siblings bound by the chains of our forefathers,
To create a system that is better,
Than the bitter shackles of the past.
Justice is what I long for.
Justice for MY people.