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Holly Feb 16
There is sunlight in your eyes
and it is a place
I wish I could
escape to.
It is warm
and I am cold.

There is sunlight in your eyes
and I know
it does not
live in mine.
This cave I hide in
does not have room
for you.

There is sunlight in your eyes,
in the world
I used to be in.
Nothing grows here
anymore,
but weeds
and a grey sad.
My hands are covered with it.

There is sunlight in your eyes.
You are alive.
I don’t know what that feels like.
Holly Feb 15
I seek validation
like a moth
seeks a flame.
So attracted
to the way it feels
to have someone else’s opinion
define who I am,
that there is
nothing I can do
to stop myself
from diving head first.
And always,
always,
underestimating
just how much
it will burn me
In the end.
Holly Feb 5
I have left pieces of me
scattered around the graveyard
of my hometown
In all the places
I used to exist.
A part of me
in the space behind the garage,
pieces dug into the
fields of high school,
and broken shards
hidden throughout
the home I both
loved and loathed.

So much of myself
abandoned
like a useless toy
they can no longer
play with,
and no longer works right.
I see them everywhere,
just bloodied little bits
cast aside
after being picked at
by friendly vultures.
And the pieces of myself
that I still hold together
between my fingers
Are ones
I barely recognise anymore.

I keep thinking,
If I play the music
loud enough
and swallow the drinks
fast enough,
I can avoid
facing the awful truth
of just how hollow
I really am.

It doesn’t work.
No matter how far
I run away,
I can’t escape
the memories that haunt me.
My skeletons have dug their way
out of my closet
to stare at me in
the mirror
with a toothless grin,
and a knife to continue
the damage
I started
A long time ago.
Holly Jan 26
I lie awake at night
and list off all the ways I avoid feeling the ache in my chest.
All the little things I do
that become desperate behaviours
of my personality trying to fix itself.

Like collecting books and arranging them
in order across the shelf,
because the fantasy
of a world so different from mine
feels like a void I can fill my room with.

Like placing my physical sentimentalities
in a box at the bottom of my drawers,
so it feels like I have
a private place
to bury myself in and know
there is something good
still alive
somewhere.

Like sleeping with the curtains wide open,
because I like to
fall in love with the dark
from a safe distance,
and still imagine suffocating myself in it
at the same time.

I tell myself that
If I fill all the spaces
with enough distractions,
I can forget why I was sad in the first place.
I can convince myself
having the rest of the bottle of *****
will make me feel more alive
than I do sober.
I can convince myself
kissing a boy I don’t know
will make me feel like
I am worth being loved.
I can convince myself
my childhood no longer screams
in my ears
that my existence is nothing more
than a burden.

Until I’m lying in bed
listing off all the ways I avoid feeling the ache in my chest,
and I realise it’s not an ache
but a hole
that’s been bleeding forever.
And there’s not a patch
big enough to make it stop.

— The End —