x r

mulan

i'm sick, i'm sick, and i -
i'm losing weight and losing time, i
don't know what i look like anymore,
who this person i'm supposed to be is;
don't know if i ever did, i'm just -
i feel like i've been dropped
out of the sky, out of my mind, it's like -
where have i been, where have i been,
where have i been that i
don't recall how i got to be
this body and these actions and i,
i don't know who i am anymore
because i'm starting to realize
i don't think i ever knew
who i was after all.
i'm sick, i'm sick, and i -
i'm losing, losing,
lost.

kinley

it's funny, looking back;
reflection isn't something i'm very good at doing all the time,
and maybe that's why i never saw this the way
i now wish i had.

sometimes you convince yourself that someone is worth trusting,
and you convince yourself so thoroughly that you ignore all evidence,
presented before or thereafter,
that this person
is not worth
trusting.

but let's get a bit less ambiguous.

look:

i know you're stressed.
you put a lot of pressure on yourself when it comes to school,
and i have always respected and worried for you
because of that.

i know you're not good at confrontation.
it's admirable, in a way, that it's something you want to avoid -
even if it means that, let's be honest,
you spend an awful lot of time
talking behind backs.

and let's be fair, it's not just you.

i know i'm hard to talk to.
"i can dish it out but i can't take it."
i'm brash and abrasive and not always the most approachable person ever,
but you have always found it in you
to seek me out when
you've needed it.

you keep calling me selfish.

why couldn't you find it in you
to seek me out when
i needed it?

i told you this on multiple occasions and i trusted you enough to understand:
i need to be told plainly and specifically when and if i am doing something wrong,
or if i need to change something.

i don't understand how you can be so smart
and yet honestly believe that you were doing me a favor
by not telling me about all these little things i could have changed or prevented,
and letting them build up until you couldn't keep it in any longer.

i can't change things now.

and i understand that i can be hard to deal with because of a lot of things,
depression not the least of it i'm sure.

but how could you possibly believe that keeping all these molehills to yourself
and unloading them on me as mountains
could possibly be okay?

i don't know why you get so angry when i get upset
after you basically let me know that you've been angry at me for ages
and just haven't said a thing?

the other day i asked you,
"are you angry at me, or have i done anything recently?"
because you'd been quiet for a while and i wasn't sure if it was stress
or if it was me.

and, as always, your answer was no.

this isn't the first time you've lied to me like that.

and i'm sorry that you don't think enough of my attempts to make sure things are fine
to even remember them come the time you decide you want to fight about it,
but they're there. they have happened.

i have tried.

but i cannot try any longer.

when we first moved in together you promised me that things would be open
and we would talk and it wouldn't be like it had been for you in the year before,
when you let things bubble up inside you 'til you burst.

i have been nothing but open to you.
and maybe because you came to me in tears a few times i believed the same about you,
but you have proved me wrong.

and that's the most shameful part of it, really.
is that when it all comes down to it, this is still my fault.

i trusted you and the evidence was right in front of me that i shouldn't
and i trusted you anyway and you hurt me like you hurt others
and i trusted you anyway
and i trusted you anyway
and i trusted you anyway.

tonight we fought,
and it was two against one like it always is,
and i guess, in that respect, i lost.

i am used to losing.

but then,
when you knew that i was crying in my room,
alone -

you left.

i can't use suicide as a threat, in all honesty,
because i care about suicide an awful lot more than that.

but you knew.
you knew.

you knew i had what i needed in there to do it -
the thing you keep desperately trying to prove to me
that you don't want me to do.

and all your arguments,
every word, has been undone,
just with this:
you left.

i could have.
i could have, and you wouldn't have been there to stop me.
less than that, i could have, and you wouldn't have been there
to care.

you're right, you do have your priorities sorted -
"some people still have to pass their classes,"
thank you, thank you, thank you.

i could have,
alone in my room tonight,
and you wouldn't have cared.
and that is why i didn't.

because never again in my life
will i give you the power to believe
that you can make an effect on me.

i have never been more disappointed with another human being in my life -
and this is coming from the girl whose own mother doesn't want her.

i am pretty disappointed in myself,
every second of every day for as long as i can remember,
especially for trusting you.

but that aside,
i hope you find relief
in not having to worry about me anymore.

you repulse me.

goodbye.

thank you:

every night i come home to a collection of pills
and i have to remind myself to take the right amount;
no more, no less.

and i'm sorry if this hurts you -
if it bothers you to hear;

i wish it were not so.
i wish it were not so.
i wish it were not so.

an ode to the vacuum cleaner:

clean your fucking room.
just, get a fucking garbage bag and start sorting your shit out.
stop turning molehills into mountains
just because you're looking for reasons to hate yourself.
clean your fucking room.
stop ruining places that used to be safe
just so you feel validated for lying in bed all day.
get up and go.
clean your fucking room.
you hate this mess.
it's embarrassing. it's disgusting.
it's not a reflection of you and stop telling yourself
that maybe it is just because
it's easier to feel sorry for yourself
than it is to plug in the vacuum.
clean your fucking room.
clean your fucking room.
clean your fucking room.

when is crying yourself to sleep alone in the dark supposed to become romantic

crossed

you described it as "alarming."

oh,
i realized,
too late as always.

that was it.
that was the line.

shit

i want to talk to you about suicide.

it's the great dirty "s" word;
selfish, sneaky,
sad.

the problem with depression is that there's a misconception therein -
a misunderstanding that makes people think that i'm sad,
and that's not quite it, it's not -

the problem is that when people think that depression means you're sad,
they think all they have to do is make you happy.

people think that if it's not one, it has to be the other,
and that's all well and good except you're trying to measure me
on the wrong goddamn scale.

i'm not sad - i'm.

i'm tired.

i am tired in a way that sleep cannot cure,
and trust me, i have tried -

spent days in the dark pretending to be dead,
but pretending isn't good enough after a while.

i want the real thing.

so let's talk about suicide.
let's really, really talk about it, and i want you to try to understand
how depression kills people.

my story is simple:
my mother was depressed,
my father was too stupid to be depressed,
toss in some mental instability and substance abuse
and voila: a recipe for my gene pool.

i came out about as well as you'd expect.

therapy started young,
medication soon thereafter,
and as i got older the appointments decreased
while the dosages climbed.

i've been diagnosed with a few things:
manic depression, obsessive compulsive disorder,
borderline personality disorder,
and vague sociopathic tendencies.

i'm real fun at parties.

the thing was, for a while, it was enough.
having a name for these things, knowing it wasn't me -
it was okay.

"a fault in chemical, not in character."

it wasn't my fault that my brain wasn't programmed right.
it wasn't my fault that i was broken;
i was born that way.

i have never been whole.

you can see how quickly this line of reasoning
can turn from comforting to condemning.

this is how terrible a person i am:
there are days that i wish i had cancer
so i had a valid reason to die.

or, if not a valid reason to die,
i could know that at one point in my life
i hadn't had cancer.

even if i had it now, it was okay -
it wasn't always like this.

i have always been depressed. i have always had whatever various
chemical screw-up happening in my brain that makes it so that
i can't do the things that other people can do.

there are days that i can't get out of bed.
there are days where i am lucky if i remember to feed myself.
there are days when i cannot stand my own existence.

and the problem, the pervasive, ugly truth of it
is that on the days that i manage to do all these things,
all i can think about is killing myself.

i'm on the side of the road and a bus drives by and i think,
i could have been in front of that.

i'm home alone, cutting up vegetables and i think,
i could open me up. i know how.

i'm counting out my prescription medication,
adding milligram by milligram and i think,
i could do it. i could go.

it is always, always, always.

suicide.

i am writing this on november 13th 2013,
and i have 1140 milligrams of escitalopram and 450 milligrams of quetiapine.
likely not fatal dosages, to be honest, and i won't risk waking up.
so here we are.

today i had to weigh in at the nurse's office,
and she kept telling me there was "nothing to me,"
and i wished that it was true.

i am suicidal. and i need you to know that what that means is not that i wish to die,
but that i wish i was dead already.

more than that, i wish i had never been alive.

i wish i had never had the chance to know people
and do and see and and touch and think and feel things
and have an effect on the world.

this is it:
a suicide letter from someone who is still alive.

because here's the tricky part, the hurtful truth, with suicide:
you will be accused of being selfish for not staying alive for other people.

this is true, trust me -
i've had it thrown in my face time and time again,
that shouldn't it be enough that other people want me to be alive?
never mind what i want, no - how could i do that?

how could i hurt other people like that?

and i have to admit that i've never fully understood this argument
because you have to know that i'm not trying to hurt you -
how can you not know that i don't want to hurt you?

and if you do think i'm doing it to try to hurt you,
how the hell am i the kind of person you want to stick around?

it's a pretty precarious situation, because the bare bones of it is that
if i kill myself, i hurt you in the process of getting what i want.
if i don't kill myself, i hurt myself in the process of giving you what you want.

correlation may not be causation and all that,
but it literally hurts me to be alive.

the only reason i am here still is because i don't want to hurt other people.

my own father called me selfish.

i don't want to cut myself because i'm scared that other people will find the mess.
overdosing seems easy but i don't want someone else to have to clean up my body and my vomit.
guts and gore were never my thing, and i shudder to think about the things
the human body releases in sudden death,
if you catch my drift.

on "danger nights," when i am scared that i might hurt myself,
i sleep in full and clean pajamas in case someone has to find me.

and these are just the big ways i might ruin someone's life,
but every day of living with depression is me chipping away
little pieces of other people who have to deal with me.

friends who have stayed with me all night to make sure i don't do anything,
my dad, who calls me long distance every 4 seconds to make sure i do something,
my mother, who hasn't spoken to me in 3 years because
i am literally volatile.

i don't understand how people don't see
that i am hurting everyone around me and inside me every second of being here,
and if i could just rip it off, like a bandaid,
just - let me, let me.

depression is killing me.
it has always been here.
it will always be here.

and i am tired of trying to fool the world into thinking
that maybe somehow i will "get through it,"

because depression isn't curable. it's only treatable.
and i will never "get through it." i will never be done with it.
i will have to treat it for the rest of my life.

that is exhausting.

and i am so, so tired.

i am sorry for suicide.
i am sorry for those who are hurt by it,
and i am sorry for those who end their hurting with it.

i'm sorry.

add it to the list of dirty "s" words.

higher education, lower self worth

i am a participant in a system that introduces me to friends
who literally do not have time to care about me.

and why should they?

the problem with hating yourself
is that you make yourself a very easy person
for other people to hate too.

and i am so tired of waiting
for somebody to prove me fucking wrong.

it's not fair of me to pin this burden on anyone else,
and yet lord knows i can't be trusted
to bear the burden
myself.

for all that everyone sees my flaws, i'm the only one who sees how to fix them

my roommates told me i was selfish and i
wanted to melt into the walls;

every day that i'm alive is a struggle
for the sake of everybody else and i'm
sorry if it's still not enough -

i'm so tired of always getting angry
only to find that i'm the one at fault.

everything in my life proves the same thing,
over and over and over again:

things would be better
without me here.

a riddle

i want a break from being. my bones are heavy
and i'm tired of fueling this flesh with anything but fire.

burn me alive. char me to death.
i'm so tired of sucking in breath,
i need release.

i am tied to so many things that i can't bear to care about
and everyone i try to love enough to explain this to
sheds tears that i can't mirror.

there are a lot of somethings that i wish i could destroy,
but there is only one someone.

ashes to ashes, dust to dust,
i am tired of mattering.

no more, no more.

guess who.

i'm sorry you can't see it

'cause it's all inside my head;

it's a beautiful morning

and i can't get out of bed.

nurse

sign my cast.

sign it, "get well soon." sign it, "bffl!"
sign it with your name in a heart.

i can't draw my name in a heart
because most of the time it makes me laugh,
but some of the time it makes me cry.

yesterday i gripped the desk and gasped for air
and cried so hard i blew out my candles.

happy sweet 16 years of therapy,
happy's just another word whose definition doesn't strike me quite right,
but i have prescriptions for that.

shall i show them to you?
in lieu of a doctor's note, a letter from my parents?

this is what's wrong with me.

this is why i couldn't come to class last week,
why i had the readings done and my paper complete
and they stayed on my desk until they were four days late.

i can't get out of bed some mornings.

i hate it.

i'm awake and i know i have to go and i just can't.
i can move, can roll over, i'm not paralyzed, it's not -
it's not something i can explain from the outside,
but i can't get out of bed some mornings.

sign my cast.

i want to look down at a plaster case that's going to hold me together and heal me.
i want to see all the names of the people who asked me what happened;
the names of who i got to tell.

i can't carry my prescriptions around like a fucking battle wound.

you can't sign my fucking pills before i swallow them,
trying to heal up the cuts that bandages can't hide because they're fucking inside me.

how am i supposed to tell people what's wrong
when i don't fucking know?

nothing is wrong.

it's just that sometimes i forget that my room is messy
and then when i remember i start to cry.

sometimes i think people hate me,
and then i hate myself for thinking i'm important enough
for other people to anything me.

sometimes i want to die.

a lot of the time, i want to die.

there's no splint or sling that can hold me together.
and the worst part is that if anyone asks me what happened,
i will have to tell them,

"nothing."

this was no accident.
i was born broken.

there is no such thing as "get well soon" for me.

sign my cast,
"i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry."

fog

spent all morning fending off the heat, the hurt;
the cold-sweat bleeding through the soul, the skin, the shirt.
spent all morning in a single blink; my eyes sealed shut trying not to think -
spent all morning fending off the heat, the hurt.

numbers

six minutes to go and i
can't force myself to start, i have to
wait until the time is right.
it's longer than five and shorter than ten
and seven is sometimes okay but not now.
not now.
the clocks have all gone digital,
so i can't map out two and a half minutes anymore
unless i count,
i count,
i count the seconds while pouring out a glass of milk
and if i don't time it right it overflows
but i can't just turn it back.
i have to
wait until the time is right,
until the numbers add up,
and now it's four minutes to go and i've missed it.
i've missed
being free from numbers,
and maybe if i wait for three i can squeeze on through but
that means there's only two minutes that have passed
and it's not okay.
it's not okay, it's not
a matter of choosing to count
as much as some days it feels like the counting chose me
and i can't, i can't, i can't
just leave, come on, we're going to be late.
i can't
just stop in the middle of ten taps to the desk,
how many lines in this poem before i can leave,
how many lines must i force myself across
before i stop tallying them up in my fucking head;
i have to skip steps at work because there are fourteen of them
and it is one step short
of okay.
i am always
one step short
of okay.

my friend elizabeth - though we never call her such -

gave me quite the inspiration, though she never said that much.

if i lied, i could have kept you when you left me back in august,

but alas, instead i cried, and my friend told me it was honest.

you are fine and i am not: memoirs of an honest fool

it's selfish, but
this would hurt me less
if it hurt you more.

shame, embarrassment, humiliation and bitterness:
all products of a hurt that you do not feel
except through me.

i'm sorry for lashing out at you, but i -

for some reason,
i still believed you might share my burden.

i'm sorry i couldn't make it worth it
for you.

feature presentation

i'll blame it on the movies
for making him think that if he could just
trade his opinion of me with my own,
things would be okay.
for making me think that if i could just
give him some space, let him come to me,
it would all work out.
because in the movies,
when she walks out of the hotel room
crying because,
"well that's it then, isn't it?"
he comes after her,
catches her in the hallway and makes it better.
and in real life,
she goes all the way downstairs
and waits in the lobby for a half an hour
until her dad comes to pick her up.
and he doesn't call or text
doesn't show up at the front door with flowers
doesn't throw rocks up at her bedroom window
and play her music from a shitty boombox.
because that only happens in the movies.
and in real life, he's left alone in the hotel room
and he's crying too.
in the movies,
if a boy tells a girl she's beautiful
it somehow makes it okay.
and in real life,
no matter how smart or funny or good
he told me that he believed i was,
his beliefs are not my own.
in the movies i guess
you can change someone's perspective
with a few nice lines of dialogue,
but in real life i can't like me just because he does.
and never mind the fact
that maybe we didn't love each other
the way the movies say we were supposed to,
but at least what we had
lasted longer than your
hour-and-a-half feature film.
in the movies,
we'd be angry.
but in real life,
we're just sad.
because i don't blame him.
and i can't blame me.
so i'll blame it on the movies
instead.

never enough

the tale of the girl who always was

caution, crime scene

i suppose
that a growing sense of ambition
ought to be encouraging, but -

i can't help but think
of the way that each time i fall,
it is because i set myself up to do so
from greater and greater heights.

i am several stories in;
i am several storeys high.

after it happened, i went to the doctor.
i had to get tested.
and as i sat there,
covered only by a paper gown
and the last shred of my dignity,
the nurse prepping my swab told me,
"you should have been prepared."
as if was supposed to anticipate
that "making love" could be spiked with hate,
i don't think i had it in me to know
that he could do that.
that he would.
and that i was supposed to know,
that i should
have been prepared.
it was my fault
for putting myself in a position of trust.
"well you were alone together, so you must
have known."
"you should own up to the repercussions of your choices,"
and so i went voiceless for a while.
i believed them.
i believed them for a long time.
years of torturing myself,
playing it over and over again in my head
trying to find the moment i said yes instead
of the no's i so vividly recall.
to which there was no action at all
except to push me down harder.
and i have been pushed down every day since
by people telling me,
"you should have been prepared."
i was unaware
that i would be expected to take responsibility
for someone else's actions.
i never reported it.
i figured if it was a rape,
people would be on my side...
so i guess it's not a rape.
i hear stories of girls being persecuted
for the actions of their perpetrators -
as if punishment enough was not being used like a piece of meat.
being deceived by the institutions
you thought were there to help you -
what is so hard to understand about rape?
why are rapists getting away with it?
maybe because, after it happened,
the nurse preparing my swab told me,
"you should have been prepared."
and made me think that it was me -
and if only i was smart enough to see
what was wrong with that
and report that motherfucker.
and i could have stood up for myself
and so many like me
and faced my rapist
and told him,
"you should have been prepared
from the moment you ignored my protests.
from the moment you pinned me down.
from the moment you pushed inside -
you should have been prepared
for a properly-functioning society to recognize
the wrong that you have done upon me
and upon all of us."
but we don't live in a properly functioning society.
we live in a society of slut-shaming,
naming single mothers whores and missing fathers nothing at all
because we don't even want to acknowledge that it happens.
well, rape happens.
trust me - i know.
and rape prevention doesn't start with the victims,
especially when they are so often outgunned.
he was twice my size,
and i have never known the meaning of powerlessness
more than i did in that moment.
i would like to never feel it again,
but evidently it doesn't always matter what i want,
because i wanted him to listen when i told him no
and i wanted someone to listen when i told them what he did to me
and nobody fucking did.
nobody fucking did.
in a properly functioning society,
someone would have recognized that i needed protection
and if that could not be granted to me before or during,
at the very least grant me that mercy after.
it should not be a fucking revelation
every time someone tells me it was not my fault.
but we don't live in a properly-functioning society.
and maybe that should have been hint enough for me, huh.
i should have been prepared.

if i could write a suicide note that would explain away everyone's misplaced guilt i would kill myself in a heartbeat; alas.

my dad used to say, "it's selfish."
with the fury and conviction of someone who's never thought to themselves,
i am tired in a way that sleep cannot help.
because trust me, i have tried;
slept for days on end pretending i had died,
leaving food out 'til i was surrounded in waste,
wasting away to try to get a taste
of that sweet relief.
i've heard people say that it's the easy way out,
and i've heard people say that things are hard because they're worth it,
but all i want is one day.
one day of not constantly thinking
how much easier it would be to swallow a bunch of pills
and get in the tub
and go.
i know, i know i'm supposed to want to try
but no matter the reasons i don't understand why
i'm supposed to want this struggle.
i'm supposed to want to be alive when
being alive means fleeting happinesses and
heavy, haunting sadnesses.
and if i had a choice in the matter,
i would've chosen for me to never have happened.
if i could just be unborn,
things would be okay.
then all this mess would go away
and i wouldn't have to hurt people with this great dirty s word:
suicide.
i've had people cry to me, beg me,
ask me to promise, please, please, don't you ever -
and i've never once agreed because i refuse
to make a promise i don't know i can keep.
i'm sorry that i am hurting you.
but there is a great hurt inside of me
whose origins i can't detect,
and i can't predict where that will lead me.
so far:
strapped to a gurney, wheeled out in front of a playground
where children stopped playing to watch me scream at my mother
for pulling me out.
staring at myself in the mirror of my hospital room bathroom,
scraping my nails through the skin on my wrist
trying to see how deep inside of me i had to go
before i could feel anything.
withdrawing from school without telling my parents,
lying, telling professors i would work, telling friends i would travel,
setting up my room for whoever found me after.
my dad used to say, "it's selfish."
and it is, i know it is,
but how am i supposed to keep living for other people
and be happy with that?
i want to not be alive anymore.
i do, i do.
and i'm sorry that that hurts you.
but i can't go one fucking day without watching a bus drive by and thinking,
"i could have been in front of that."
home alone, cutting up vegetables and thinking,
"yes, right now, do it, you could do it."
taking my nightly medication, pouring out every pill,
counting them up and knowing,
"this is enough. this is it."
but i wait to cross the street
and i put the knife in the sink
and i take the proper dose
and i wait.
because i will gladly do worse things to myself
than i will do to other people.
maybe it's selfish -
but i find redemption in knowing that i have lasted this long
for everyone but me,
and i think that maybe it's high time i was a little bit selfish.
maybe, for me, just this one thing. please.
i'm sorry.
but if suicide really is some great unforgivable offense, well -
that's just one more broad burden
i will no longer have to bear.

i remember hearing about it in the third grade;
there was a complex on my street for "financial aid",
and a class that i was not a part of laughed.
a whole condominium of victims of condescension,
mockery of misfortune and i was scared to mention
my address. i didn't know whether we were on welfare too
or i should be laughing along with my peers.
how do you ask a single mother,
"are the kids at school right?
do their parents pay for where we sleep at night?"
it's not like we ever found ourselves on the street,
and she always made sure we had enough to eat
but the anxiety remains:
was i present for the mockery of my own position?
i remember no-name fruit snacks - i hid from my friends,
scared of the message that no label sends
or what it meant to have less.
my birthdays were spent at mcdonald's with two guests
and i never knew that that was strange
until another girl's party was horseback riding.
i've spent so much time hiding
and so much energy clawing my way
to a place where the careless shit people say
won't apply to me.
i wanted to be an actress, a singer, an artist
minus the starving part - not for lack of love for my art
but for fear of the perception of my funds
and what the digits in my bank account meant i was.
there are those who have it worse, and i can't imagine -
i worked since fifteen just to keep up with fashion
so nobody could mock me for second-hand jeans.
i don't want it all but i just want the means
to not have to worry about being perceived as lesser
just because that is what i have.
and i am clawing my way up as far as i can get
but it still feels like i haven't even caught up yet
to my middle school friends who got a cell phone on easter
and weren't even happy with it.
and there are times when i am so happy to know the true meaning of gratitude,
but the desire for more still drives me
to dejection and disgrace.
i'm tired of working so hard to save face
when my belongings shouldn't dictate my state of being.
i remember hearing about it in the third grade
and ever since i've been preoccupied with getting paid
enough to make me worth it.
my life at discount pricing.

dad's 60th

"though it goes without saying, i love you to death,
though i'm glad you're around to keep suckin' in breath.
and if, on the way there, i've caused a few grey hairs,
i still think you're handsome as hell.

from the drunk cigarettes all your friends let you smoke,
to the large diet fries with your non-diet coke,
you may be wider than tall, but i love you with all
my heart, does surge and swell -

happy birthday, daddy, i love you so -
60 years down and 60 to go."

i've got an itch

i've been thinking more and more about writing a novel lately and i don't really know what's stopping me. i guess when it comes down to it i'm a little bit afraid but also i just don't know what i should write? i've always been partial to fantasy but i feel like that's not something you can just pick up and run with - same for some sci-fi ideas i've been throwing around for ages. it's stuff that takes real research and planning and i feel like i'm going to run out of time and steam for that before the summer ends. and then part of me wants to write a sort of fiction/autobiography fusion where i basically just get out a lot of my own issues and bullshit in the form of basically diary entries that i could tweak enough to call make-believe, ahahaha. i don't know who the fuck would read that, though.and i don't even know, i'm busy with work a lot this summer and all i do is sleep when i'm home so chances are i won't even do anything, knowing me.

whelp.

ghjlkgjhb

"there's a flightpath outside of my window,
and i wonder who's coming back home,
and i wonder who's flying with lovers,
and i wonder who traveled alone.

are you chasing your dreams 'cross the country?
are you dreading the cross through the gates?
every night i watch wingtips go flashing,
and i wonder who's moving while i

wait.

one ticket to anywhere please,
one ticket to anywhere please,
one ticket to anywhere
please.

there's a flightpath outside of my window,
and i wonder what seats i could fill,
and i wonder where i might have gone to,
and i wonder if i might go still.

could i justify leaving tomorrow?
could i spend my time counting the dates?
every night i watch wingtips go flashing,
and i wonder who's moving while i

wait.

one ticket to anywhere please,
one ticket to anywhere please,
one ticket to anywhere
please.

fact:

i'm too small to love myself
while too tied up in someone else -
my heart just doesn't have the space
to keep two people in one place.

yearbook

"we never grew up, no
we just grew away.
and i know that we had to
to end up okay.

i won't tell you i miss you
when i'd rather say:
i know i'll stop hurting
and thank you someday."

zesxrdcftgvbhjnkm

gonna build up some moon-sand,
pat down the middle
siphon my blood and
little by little -

gonna leave me there,
gonna get some space.

my sense of self is shaky at best,
and it rattles in my chest
with every loose piece of me.

my confidence is better left alone;
doesn't reach down to the bone
and if that's shallow, let it be.

if i was whole, i wouldn't have
the space to give to you
under my skin.

without control, i finally have
the grace to live with you,
to let you in.

driving home from the airport

today my dad finally told me to my face that he used to think i might have been anorexic.

all i could say was,
"i know."

i was telling him my story,
and he told me of his own.
he was showing me a glory
of a life i'd never know.

and i told him i was tired,
and he said to go to sleep.
but i never did aspire
to be something he would keep -

floating in the shallow end,
or sinking in the deep.

heather

there's a whistle in the woodland
down beneath my throat;
in the would-have-if-i-could-land,
willing on the things i won't.

if you wait with all your senses,
you won't hear it on the wind.
bowling down the stone defences
rolling meadows, rolling in.

won't you take me back?
won't you take me in?
i am beaten from the path -
can't you hear the weather's wrath?
it's inside, it's surrounded, within.

there's a calling from the beaches
hung beneath my chest;
in the current, what beseeches
you lay me down to rest.

if you want with all your being,
you won't feel my sinking bones.
aching seas of never seeing,
breaking shores and breaking homes.

won't you take me back?
won't you take me in?
i am beaten from the path -
can't you hear the weather's wrath?
it's inside, it's surrounded, within.

it's inside, it's surrounded, within.

if i could give a speech to a room full of sad people

my name is samantha hogan. i'm a 21 year old university student from a middle class family, with divorced parents and one younger brother named timothy.
every night i take 30mg of the anti-depressant cipralex and 25mg of the anti-psychotic apo-quetiapine. i have been "formally diagnosed" with clinical depression, obsessive compulsive disorder, borderline personality disorder, social anxiety and a generalized anxiety disorder, along with a dash of sociopathic tendencies. further psychoanalysis, including blood tests and brain scans, are to be negotiated when i head home this summer.
in the twelfth grade i was hospitalized twice, each time for two weeks, after separate suicide attempts. i don't know why i did it. maybe i was angry. maybe i was sad. mostly, though, i think i was just tired.
to be honest, i'm still tired. all the time. most of the time i can deal with it but sometimes, when i'm the last person crossing the street and all the cars are waiting for me, i still think the world would be a better place without me.
there are days when i can't get out of bed. and days when even when i do get out of bed, i take one look at myself in the mirror and crawl back under the covers. i sometimes go weeks without taking my medication just to see how long i can last. i drink even though i shouldn't because i'm afraid that people won't remember me unless i'm wild - and remembering things myself comes second to that, i guess.
i used to self harm, but it was short lived. i didn't really see a point. i figured if i was going to off myself, i should just off myself. i've purposely overdosed on my medication twice. i cut my wrists and crawled into a flooded tub in all my clothes once, and although i don't remember it, i apparently told the paramedics that i did it because "i felt heavy and i wanted to sink."
my life really hasn't been much better or worse than the average, i think. i don't have a reason to be depressed, and sometimes that's the hardest part about it. i have amazing friends who have been there for me the whole way through, and it hurts when they ask why i'm sad and i can't come up with an answer.
i hate knowing what i've put people through in my own selfishness and there are days when i have to sit myself down and remind myself that depression is a fault in chemical and not character. that i didn't choose to have these thoughts but i can choose which thoughts i act upon.
one of the hardest things i ever came to know was the simple truth of suicide: if you want to do it, you will. if you've been thinking about it or planning something and you haven't done it yet, there's a reason. it wasn't hard for me to find out how many pills i had to take to end it all. the internet is a beautiful tool, even in the wrong hands. the fact of the matter is that i knew how many pills i had to swallow and i didn't do it.
and as hard as it was for me to admit it, it was because i didn't mean it. i didn't want to kill myself. if i'd really wanted to, i would have counted out the pills more carefully, or cut "down the road and not across the street" or i would have found some way to not be here anymore.
but i am here.
and i am here to tell you not that it gets better - it gets worse. every time you think that you've managed to claw your way out of your darkest moments, a new darkness will be introduced to you and you won't think that you can't overcome it. but you will. and then a darker darkness will come and you will think that you can't overcome it. but you will. because as long as you remain alive, there is a light.
maybe you can't see it; maybe it's so far away that you'll have to drag your beaten self for miles before you find it. maybe it's so dim that your eyes can't detect it in between your tearful fits and sleepless nights. more often than not, though, it's inside you. and i know that sounds cheesy but i mean it, and you are going to have to scrape away all the pieces of you that you're not happy with until you can uncover that light and feed it.
i'm still digging. i have yet to find the thing that's supposed to make me love myself, or at the very least stop hating myself.
but it's a thousand step process, and no matter which direction you choose to go in, it's uphill both ways in a thunderstorm of self doubt and it's okay to take breaks along the way as long as they do not break you.
step one: i'm still here.
i'm still here to tell you that most of the time redemption doesn't come in a sudden burst, but in a grueling climb. and some will not make it. but you will.
there is no defeat in accepting help, from doctors or friends or prescriptions or help lines or food or exercise or video games or sleeping for 24 hours.
you have no control over the things that surround you. i'm here to tell you that those things might get worse. they probably will. they might get better, but that's something i can't promise to you. what i can say, without a doubt, is that as long as you keep clawing at the light, you will get better. you will get brighter even when you're learning that black is not as dark as things get.
my name is samantha hogan. i'm a 21 year old university student and my flaws do not define me. my disorders do not define me. my medications and my doctor's appointments and my days spent alone in my room do not define me.
i'm from a middle class family, with divorced parents, and one younger brother named timothy.
i have yet to find my light, but i am here.
it's nice to meet you. let's begin.

fghjkoiuythg

some people can put the truth in their mouths,
but it doesn't fit in mine.

the truth is far too small and strange;
it slips out through the cracks in my smile,
leaks between my teeth
and gets away.

some people can put the truth in their mouths,
to give to other people when they speak or sing or slip
kisses from one set of lips to another.

i'd give many things to be able to offer the truth to somebody,
so small and strange but simple and strong
in ways i cannot say.

some people can fit the truth in their mouths,
but it doesn't fit in mine.

spoiled fucking cunt/goddamn enough

so here's the thing:

i have an extremely small personal bubble and a very short window within which intrusion into this bubble can be accepted.

and there are days when i feel like i ought to feel bad about it or work on it or something,

but then there are days when someone who is supposed to know me and get me completely disrespects the fact that i experience this anxiety and struggle with it on a daily basis and i just never want to have to come in physical contact with anyone ever again unless it's to punch that person in the face. 

long story short:

if i'm supposed to put up with your fucking issues, collected ~*~ESPECIALLY 4 U~*~ because you're a special fucking unicorn princess whose problems matter more than mine -

fuck it, don't even finish that thought. 

just fuck off. 

rb 21

no homo, but i thought that i
could tell you that i love you and why
i'm glad to know you.

i'm not always there when i should be;
i don't know how to let you see
what i am trying to show you -

i love you more than words can say,
and time can't make that go away,
i think this every day:

 i'm so glad you're here.

happy birthday, i love you,
and i'm so proud of you,

no homo,
but i thought you should know.

here's to 21,
let's get fucked,
let's have fun.

sad

i haven't been sad in a very long time.
don't get me wrong - it doesn't mean that i've been happy all along,
because that would be a bold-faced lie.

i cry a lot.

and for me, it used to be
that you cried when you were sad.
"if you're happy and you know it, clap your hands,"
because a child understands nothing
beyond the black and white. wrong or right. good and bad.

you laugh when you're happy and you cry when you're sad,
but i haven't been sad in a very long time.

i have been upset and stressed, angry and depressed,
on medication with little motivation to get better.

i have been tired.

i guess i used to cry when i was tired if you go back a few years,
but now my naps aren't fixing anything,
aren't stopping my tears or quelling my fears
that i will never get better.

people ask me what is wrong and i have nothing to say.

i haven't been sad in a very long time
because once you grow up you're not allowed to be sad.

no one is medicating children for not wanting to get out of bed,
for being quiet and angry and trapped in their head,
for being all the ways of wrong that i have grown up to be -
it isn't sad anymore.

it's just a problem.

it's an anti-depressant, anti-anxiety,
anti-fucking-psychotic issue of not being able to tell people
what is the matter with me.

"i'm sad,"
is not a thing that i have been allowed to say since very young.

"i'm sad,"
is not a thing that is good enough to excuse the fact
that i can't do all the things that normal people seem to be able to do with ease,
i can't tease out my words to explain all the ways in which
i am so sad all of the time,
i cry and i have no idea why.

i want to fall asleep and never wake.
every day feels like i'm just stuck here for the sake of everyone else,
stepping that much closer to breaking
and choking down chalky capsules
to quell the aching.

i haven't been sad in a very long time.
i don't know what to call what i have been.

please don't ask.

mirrors

there was a girl in third grade
with long dark hair,
and though we never did speak,
oh, i always did stare.

and i wanted for someone to see me
the way i saw her.

there was a boy in the summer
with sun-kissed skin
and the girls were left swooning
wherever he'd been.

and i wanted for someone to see me
the way i saw him.

my reflection's never been a real source of pride;
i don't know how to show what i look like inside.
if you see me, please let me know.
please let me know.

there was a girl in my high school
with perfect white teeth,
and i'll bet she was beautiful
deep underneath.

and i wanted for someone to see me
the way i saw her.

there was a boy down the hall
who cried when he laughed,
and i wanted to kiss him
on beauty's behalf.

and i wanted for someone to see me
the way i saw him.

there ain't no mirror that i've ever seen
that has shown me somebody i'd rather have been,
and i know it's not that hard to be me.
i don't know why it's so hard to see me.

oh, my reflection's never been a real source of pride;
i don't know how to show what i look like inside.
if you see me, please let me know.
please let me know.

he

have you seen my ghost?

he's been wandering about,
he's been traveling without me.

have you seen my ghost?

he's been gone where i can't go,
if you see him, let him know i miss him.

won't you send my ghost,
won't you send my ghost,
won't you send my ghost
back home.

have you seen my ghost?

he's been wandering about,
he's been traveling without me.

have you seen my ghost?

he's been gone where i can't go,
and i let him even though i miss him.

i should leave my ghost,
i should leave my ghost,
i should leave my ghost
to roam.

have you seen my ghost?

my whole life is a case of deja fucking vu

you're asking me for dirty pictures,
i don't see the harm -
and i don't see all the feelings that you're
wearing down your arm.

it's a dirty game,
it's such a shame:
we could have been alright
if i hadn't stayed the night.

you're offering your jacket,
i'm pretending i'm not cold.
you are offering me pieces
when i do not want the whole.

it's a filthy curse -
this never works,
i don't know why we tried.
i don't want to make you cry,

but you think you love me,
and i know you don't.
and you think we'll make it,
and i know we won't.

i'm sorry, i'm sorry,
i'm so sorry.

some irish sounding ditty fuck if i know

there's something uncertain in building a home;
like colouring in-between the lines -
filling in for the places you might rather roam
while you're caught up in other designs.

well you're filling in rooms that are otherwise bare,
rearranging the pieces that mark that you're there.
it's siring a solitude you'd sooner stay,
when you're tired of wandering up and away,

home sweet home:
come get rested and ready to face a new day.

there's something in keeping that first little toy,
in starting in filling up the shelf;
in saving a trinket that some might destroy.
what it says, it says for yourself, oh -

you're building in pieces, in corners and nooks,
you're filling in spaces with tokens and books.
you're writing in histories, caught in the view;
a place in the world that's reflected in you -

home sweet home:
come get warm where the welcome is never more true.

an actual blog post about my actual day

today i didn't go to either of my classes.
that's nothing new, but god fucking damn it. i've officially sent out emails asking to meet with all my profs to discuss what i'm dealing with, like not even for sympathy or accommodation but just because being around people who know what's going on motivates me to get over it? if that makes sense.
like when people know me and know what i'm struggling with, the last thing i want to do is have them watch it defeat me, i guess. it just makes me want to show them that even though i'm going through whatever, i can still turn out okay.
meh.

tim pulled some stupid shit the other night and i just like don't even care enough to talk about it anymore but i just didn't need it, ahaha. i know it sounds selfish but like fuck, i just wanted to lie in bed and like just not get up ever, ahaha.
and i've been sick and just like shitty and i've lost 7 pounds, so i'm down to 117 now. which like isn't bad but if you know my body type then you know that i usually look about like 15 - 20lbs lighter than my actual weight, so i'm sitting at like 97 theoretically and i just ugh.
i just want like a woman's body, ahaha. god damn it.

i actually only got out of bed after a text from lauren where she said she had to talk to me, and i was sort of concerned because i thought maybe she was mad at me for something? like i legitimately have no idea what the hell it would have been for, but i've just been in a shitty mindset i guess so that's the conclusion i jumped to.
but then she texted me saying that she just like couldn't stop crying and she couldn't breathe, so i ran over and we talked and i helped her breathe through what i think was a panic attack. like lauren is such a strong personality and such an independent person that i think people forget that she IS a person? and she definitely forgets it herself... she places so much pressure on herself and gives herself so little credit and just allows other people to shape her sense of self and her feelings of self worth, and it's hard to watch.
it's difficult too because it's definitely not an anomaly among our friends, i think we all have those issues and deal with them in different ways and i guess today was just the breaking point for her. christ.
obviously it was super shitty for her to be going through that but i was really flattered that she felt like i was the one she should talk to, like even if for no other reason than because i'd been through similar shit, i dunno. it was just nice, like selfishly? ahahaha. i know she has a hard time asking for help too, so i dunno, there's that.
i suggested that she talk to student services or someone, because it sounds like she's experiencing anxiety at least, with like minor depression that i think are stemming from lack of sleep because of the anxiety. it's all so intertwined, like god damn it ahaha. the human body is just a trap. the end.

i went to the bank and opened up a new student account and applied for another student visa, just to try to start building some extra credit, i dunno. but at least i got that done. meant to pick up tampons on the way home because i randomly have my period again because i keep messing up my medication, but i forgot, so whatever.

i wanted to go to the gym, but i've been sick and i just like felt shitty, so i opted out. did a 45 minute strength/cardio workout off youtube instead, and i'm actually really glad i didn't go to the gym now because i know i would have pushed myself to do my old workout if i had and i definitely would ahve hurt myself. this workout was bad enough. i'm glad i did it though. thought i was going to die during and almost passed out after, but i'm feeling okay now.

gonna go make steak and veggies for dinner, then shower and study hopefully, ahah.

eh, today started out shitty and then sort of got better and anyway i got some shit done so i think that's the gist of it.

i'd like to meet some new people.
we'll see.

ewrdtyuhijo

i'm actually just so tired of everyone's bullshit, like
i absolutely just have 0 patience left for it at all and it's not like i'm saying i'm perfect or anything BY A LONG SHOT but it's like man, why is it not considered socially acceptable to just call people on their shit?
like why can't everyone just go around calling everyone else out when they're being fucking cunts and then everyone can just be like "oh, damn, sorry" and fucking like be a better person, like why does it have to turn into a fucking episode of the young and the restless any time you tell someone off for being a piece of shit, like goddamn

and like not only that but it is just straight up the worst feeling in the world when you've been doing something and just like nobody has said anything about it and then like fuckin' WEEKS LATER you find out that it was actually shitty and just like i hate that, i get so embarrassed because i always just feel like fuck man, how did i not realize that that wasn't okay, like i wish someone had just called me out on it right away so i could fucking stop doing it, fuck ahaha
like not even anything in particular right now, just like i know that i'm sometimes oblivious to this shit and i feel like everyone is so afraid to say this shit to everyone else and it's like WHY

LIKE WHY CAN'T WE ALL JUST HELP EACH OTHER BE BETTER PEOPLE, FUCK

like i honestly 100% do not call people on their shit just to be like a bitch, it's just like
hey. fuckinnn' stop that, like you're being a douche, or like fuck just admit that what you did was shitty and then we can all move on and learn and grow or whatever and just like be slightly less shitty in the future?

i just like.
i don't understand the thing
why is the thing so hard
how do u thing.

sk's 21

beautiful girl, on the inside, the outside -
and everything between.
i don't know if i know
how to tell you what you mean.

when you're happy, i'm happy.
when you're sad i'm happy anyway,
'cause you're still here.

happy birthday, dear beautiful girl -
here's to another year.

beautiful girl, i'm so glad that i met you,
that i could be your friend.
even when i'm not a good one,
you stick with me in the end.

your strength gives me strength,
and at the worst of times i know
we'll persevere.

happy birthday, dear beautiful girl -
here's to another year.

here's to another year, beautiful girl,
here's to another year.

homo

he was beautiful -
even for a boy -
and he laughed
when i told him so.

it was beautiful -
free and full of joy,
with a sound to swallow
sorrow with its glow.

when asked if he believed in god,
said, "he made eve 'n i am odd."

guess we'll never know.

she was beautiful -
even as a child -
and she laughed
when i told her so.

it was beautiful -
jubilant and wild,
with a sound to swallow
sorrow with its glow.

when asked if she believed in god,
said "she made eve 'n i am odd."

guess we'll never know.

christ

everybody's bummed and i'm an ass;
i don't mean to be crass but
i guess at least everyone's lost their shit together -
pun intended.
everyone i've befriended
is depressed,
making best-dressed,
most-popular, locally-famous lists
and not giving a fuck.
what happened to happy?
i don't know where it went
and i'm the worst they could have sent
to find it again.
my throat hurts and my back aches
and school's just started and i'm searching for breaks
so soon;
loading my pills on a spoon
and swallowing down all the sanity i can get.
(haven't grown much yet.)
sowing my seeds when my head's not pounding
but it only feeds the feeling of drowning
in all the big fat fucking nothing.
what happened to happy?
swallow your pills.

all my fucking songs turn into the most literal pieces of garbage ever like fuck why can't anything i write leave anything to the imagination i am going to rip out every single hair on my body

mama used to say to me, "go make friends,"
and i talked away from strangers.
guess it really just depends
on heeded dangers.

and i'm cryin' in my room 'cause i don't speak right,
have i lost my apprehension?
auto-pilot, fight or flight
without contention -

i have only one hello,
and i'd hate to see it broken -
i ran out so long ago,
too often spoken.

i have so many "goodbyes",
"see you soon"s that turned to lies,
but i have only one hello
left to go.

asinine pedantic lovesong bullshit

didn't i say that this would hurt?
didn't i say that this would cut you deep?
didn't i say that you'd regret it? forget it -
what i didn't say were words i'd like to keep.

i won't pour my heart out for you;
it's something i won't do,
and i told you from the start.

won't lay it all out on the table,
i would try but i'm not able.
there's a reason you can't reach in to my heart.

didn't i say i'd let you down?
didn't i say that this would end in tears?
didn't i say it wasn't worth the fight to make it right
when i can't say where i got lost within my fears.

i won't pour my heart out for you;
it's something i won't do,
and i told you from the start.

won't wear my feelings on my sleeve,
when it's not something i believe -
there's a reason you can't reach into my heart.

shy boy

one of these days you just might snap,
gonna let it all out where it can't come back.
i know you want to go.

but it's harder than hoppin' fences,
lettin' down your stone defences,
and i know you know i know.

but you still can't look her in the eye,
thinkin' "you're too old to be so shy" -
and "i love you."

one of these days she just might see
the words you never speak to be,
but oh, the days are slow.

and it's harder than pursin' lips,
reading carefully for slips,
but i know you know i know.

and you still can't look her in the eye,
thinkin' "you're too old to be so shy" -
and "i love you."

you still can't look her in the eye,
thinkin' "you're too old to be so shy" -
thinkin' "i love you."

soci 2211: gender relations slam poetry

topic: "anatomy as destiny"
 

If anatomy is destiny,

What about the rest of me?

What about a PhD,

Awards from the Academy?

Trophies or medals,

Things that I've earned,

How about the social roles

That I have had to learn?

Did my vagina decide that I should grow my hair long?

That if I didn't wear makeup, I was doing something wrong?

That my jeans should be tight,

And my skin should be clear?

That if I chose a fist-fight,

You'd have nothing to fear?

Did my vagina decide that I should be a nurse

Instead of a doctor,

That I should carry a purse?

Will my vagina decide what I do with my degree?

Does my vagina define who I'm allowed to be?

If anatomy is destiny,

What about the rest of me?

You can look between my legs,

But I got plenty more for you to see.

slam poetry??????? maybe idk fuck it

when the fuck did i choose to be skinny?
social menus play it up like it's some big prize,
but i never said to the waiter "no ass, tits, or thighs,"
i thought i was supposed to be a woman -
there's an order i'd say yes to,
but i'm not included in the populace who's
allowed to call themselves so;
oh no.
i'm an evil tool used by social media
to tell girls who are bigger than me to throw up after that big mac,
put that slice of cake back you fat sack of shit,
don't you wanna be skinny?
don't you want people to pester you, askin'
"how'd you get so thin?"
"do you toss out more than you put back in?"
"you're so lucky," they say,
and i still remember the day
i walked into a clinic FOR THE FLU
which happened to deal with anorexia too.
all eyes on me.
being "too skinny" isn't considered a real problem
unless it's an eating disorder.
and trust me - i got no problems with eating.
but no one else gives a shit.
being a size zero is a jackpot in magazines,
'til you go out and try to buy a pair of jeans
and the "real" women tell you it ain't a "real" size.
how come in order to accept our bodies we have to critique the bodies of others?
like how you're allowed to comment when the number's small
and when the scale reads large you can't comment at all?
when the fuck did i ask to be skinny?
'cause honestly, waiter,
this better be on the house.

glass

i have become my own best friend.

someone help me.

warm winter sun,
shake the frost from my bones.
peel the ice from my lungs,
my heart.

warm winter sun,
i been sleeping like a stone,
and i need for this year
to start.