CONTENT WARNING:
DEATH, MENTION OF SUBSTANCE ABUSE, MENTION OF SELF-HARM/SUICIDE.
MENTAL ILLNESS/HEALTH -- REFERENCES TO DEPRESSION, ANXIETY, AND DISSOCIATION.
hurting, but i want flowers
When I die
mix my ashes into soil and plant a
peony garden that will last for centuries.
Mix my bones into the earth and grow a
great redwood tree.
Make me imprint onto this earth as
something to marvel at in this pitiful life.
I want to be greater than I am now.
GROWING UP MEANS DYING
I want to hold onto my childish memories
until the sun burns every last bit of
yesterday and last year.
Until I’m sure that that ultimate end is now
and when skies are filled with ashes.
That I held onto something for so long,
with claws sunken deep,
that this selfishness within me
is the very reason
I pulled through until that ultimate end.
NEGLECT AND MOURNING
Growing up, home was always fUll:
The rooms were full
The hampers were full
The sink was full
The pantry was full
The fridge, filled.
I think it really affects me now:
But especially, the fridge.
What used to be filled with
everything I ever wanted,
Now is 4 eggs, one jar of pickles, leftover rice
Maybe some carrots, half a can of broth
Some sauce, some bread, maybe
It’s always some now
To be honest,
everything could probably fit in the crisper.
MAY 2014
I.
There are moments when I slump over
in the shower and hug my knees thanking
myself for never giving up
for all the times I wanted to end everything.
II.
There is a void in my head and chest
for every person I wanted out of my life
so I could fill it with my own
self-worth and my own reasons why
to take care of myself.
i can only make so many excuses for my own neglect.
PRETEND
I loathe and adore the way that false
memories of MY OWN burrowing fingernails
would elicit the sensation of knives
and I never bothered for them to stop.
I have bruises for all the hours I’ve
given up sleep in winter and spring.
CYNICISM
I could probably hate you for this,
but I choose not to. Anger is exhausting,
I’ve learned. I found peace of mind
in a near-death experience.
Broken skin is irrelevant
when you are still
capable of living as you please.
We're alive and well,
so I’ve been told.
It’s a fucking shame that
we let the state of being
consume our lives
and how we try to relate every
sad song to every poor excuse
of our petty experiences alone.
Sometimes we’ll never let ourselves
know what we’re doing.
Here are some lyrics that I liked,
they might mean something to you.
They don’t mean much to me anymore.
And I never learned a lesson
looking at my own reflection,
but sometimes it seems useful.
So I loosen my heart strings
in high hopes of starting
to find something truthful.
Cynicism isn’t wisdom,
it’s a lazy way to say
that you’ve been burned.
It seems, if anything,
you’d be less certain after
everything you ever learned.
undone
you never read my poems
or heard my songs,
still wrote them for you.
if i had changed back then
and been kinder to myself,
the hole would be full.
Gravel and rust,
silence and musk
maybe then,
i can be undone too.
don’t want to explain
that i need to go.
if i’m on my way out,
hope no one’s waiting at home.
