Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
2d · 50
Fear of Living
Death does not frighten me.
It calls to me from beyond the veil,
Beckoning with it's bony hands,
And I resist it's siren song.
I do not fear it.
What scares me is that one day I may wake up
At 60 years old and feel exactly as I do now,
Wondering what the point is,
Trudging through the days like wet cement,
Feeling like all those expectations were wasted upon me,
And I have nothing to offer for all the burrowed time they gave me
But the scars that show I toiled to be alive.
It scares me that while others grow old with grace
And pass down stories of a life well lived
That I will be keeping the same desperate, empty company
I've always kept,
That existing will still feel like hard work,
And that I will have spent the next 40 years trying to prove my worth
By maintaining a body that's been trying to **** me since I was twelve.
It's not death that frightens me.
I am terrified of a life that does not feel like living
And a world that will be so disappointed in me for never becoming
More than I am.
Jul 6 · 213
Poet's Existence
My soul itches for poetry,
Fingers long for the tap of keyboard or scratch of a pen.
My mouth curves around syllables,
Missing the way they slam against a microphone
As I make myself heard amongst a crowd of those
Who know what it means to be beholden to this master,
To write lines of a poem the way some breathe the air,
To be so made up of adjectives and metaphors
That I no longer know where I begin and the poetry ends.
I am simply molecules and letters masquerading as a human,
Trying to become whole again on paper.
Jun 30 · 580
When I was waist high,
Freckles are angels kisses,
And bedtime seemed a comeuppance
Years old,
I used to wish to grow up in effort to shed my
Child's problems.
Now that the years have raced past,
I've grown into an adult's body
Along with adult problems,
And I wish I hadn't pleaded with the fates
To hurry it onward so.
Jun 20 · 248
Composition of Me
I am not made of miracles or borrowed prayers.
There is no magic in my bones or mysticism to my name.
I am made of sweat,
Of salt stains on flushed cheeks.
I am made of blood smears
And too much hand lotion.
I am made of toil and trouble,
Of mistakes and rectification.
I am composed of ink and paper,
Of ill-remembered idioms and words I've absorbed from books.
My existence is fueled by a certain brand of sock,
A teddy bear given to me at birth,
And a desire to prove that I was more than what they told me
That I could be greater than what I thought of myself.
I am made of laughter and twisted humor,
Of Murphy's law and learning to conserve energy and care.
I am made of misbehaved neurotransmitters and wild thoughts.
I have a love of the night sky and swimming in cool waters.
My soul steeped in the desire to frolic and eat sweets.
I wear scars that prove I have suffered and earn me judgement,
But I have survived a world and brain designed to be my unbecoming
Not because I'm made of miracle or magic or prayers.
I survived because I'm made of attitude, resolve, resilience,
And a thirst to prove that I can.
Most importantly,
There always seems to be a flicker of something that promises me
That even in my worst moment, I should continue to live.
May 13 · 210
Remix of Reality
The tree is dancing and flickering
Like some computer glitch,
ANd the sound of fpptstops trail me,
Doors shutting,
Chairs scraping,
Dogs barking in an otherwise empty house.
I do not know how to sav myself from this
Remix of unreal and reality,
Just hiding blasting music
Trying to drown out the sound of someone trying to **** me.
The figurine of the pink power ranger rests under my pillow while I try to sleep,
Guardian, protector,
Save me.
I do not want to listen to my thoughts.
They hurt adn conjure things,
Enamored of death or a way out of this hell.
At night I dream
Of people stealing the earrings out of mye ears
And hundreds of people chanting my name.
No matter where I run, they call me.
Even hiding amongst the frogs brings no relief
As their Ribbits shout my name from behinf the bushes.
Save me from this hell, my mind.
I don't want to listen to it.
I don't want to die.
Error 404: Higher brain function not found
We are sorry to inform you,
But the thought machine is out of order
Please, step back and remove your quarter.
We are taking your thoughts Tough Mudding
They must now swim through wet cement to reach your consciousness,
But fear not
There are legions of them 'Worming their way through your soft tissues
In between apathy and emotional volatility.
What's that?
You say you're going crazy?
Oh, my darling,
Nothing but a case of spontaneous dyslexia
Words and numbers were made to be in motion,
Slipping through your grasp and changing location
Just a spot of fun
It hurts to think
To exist is to be locked in a dance of exhaustive hyperactive misery
There is something wrong with my thoughts
Please, I do not want to listen to myself think
Apr 25 · 984
I am often told that love will leave me breathless,
But I hope I never know a love so greedy as to steal the air from my chest,
For I have memories of a time when my body was oxygen starved
And my lungs unable to draw in breath,
Bogged down under soupy pneumonia that clung to my innards
With vice-like, snotty grips.
My mind is sometimes lost in the sensation of frantically
Drawing air inward,
******* it into my chest with great gasps that never alleviated the burning of my lungs
Or the way pins and needles tingled down my limbs.
My brain cells were consumed with desire to force O2 to bind with the red blood cells churning in my veins.
The air surrounding me was dense with particles that refused to aid my survival,
No matter how much effort I exerted to the contrary.
Sweat dripped off my too thin form and pallid skin
As I drowned slowly from the inside out in a room full of doctors
Until they finally placed the tube back into my throat to breathe for me.
The pain receded as oxygen raced back into my cells,
And I marveled for a moment at the fact that I could not feel myself breathing,
Couldn't feel the rise or fall of my chest.
The mark of my vitality was absent,
And yet,
I was very much alive.
I remember what it was to be truly breathless,
The blind panic that seized me before finally giving way to a wish for death.
It's because of this I hope love never empties my lungs.
I want a love that makes breathing feel safe and exciting,
A love that feels so gloriously alive that I am acutely aware of my chest rising.
Love should always make breathing feel like both a right and a privilege.
It is a privilege to love her and be in her presence.
But I hope she never leaves me breathless.
Apr 24 · 288
Name of the Pain
I am being suffocated by pain
That demands to be felt
But refuses to acknowledge its origin or cause.
How do I tame a beast
Whose name I do not know?
This season always brings with it emotional turmoil,
The joys of daylight's manipulation of bipolar disorder,
But this creature that weighs down my chest
Has not uttered its name.
Like all demons,
It must be named to be exorcised,
And it will not be cowed by my speaking in tongues.
Back ye foul beast
From whence you came.
By hook or crook
I will learn your name.
Apr 14 · 552
On My Grandmother's 90th
Night falls like a heavy blanket
As the smell of rain wafts off the pavement,
Wheels of my father’s truck carrying us homeward.
The mountains stand like shadowed specters,
Black against a cloud covered sky,
Moon too shy to peak out from behind
The curtains of leftover moisture.
I hum a choked-up rendition of
Stairway to Heaven that plays across the radio waves.
Tonight, we are driving home from celebrating my grandmother’s
90th birthday.
My soul aches with the joy of sharing this occasion with her
And the sadness of watching as age catches her in life’s race.
I count my blessings that I have been gifted this moment,
For one never knows how many lie around the corner.
She is the most amazing person I’ve had the opportunity to meet.
If I could be granted the rest of my life be spent in her company,
It would still be too short.
Love reminds me that sometimes the best things in life
Are the ones that hurt the most to lose,
Yet I would not trade a moment’s loving her
For an ounce less pain.
It is worth it to love her so completely
For as long as time will let me.
Mar 17 · 667
Moral Mortal
Do not conflate mortality and morality.
You can die a sinner,
Or you can die a saint,
But we all die just the same.
Thinking about the notion that being "good" can save people. Feeling like it's better to strive to be moral for the sake of being moral and not because there's some promise at the end of the line. Death comes for us all eventually.
Mar 17 · 301
The Price of Diagnosis
At 7 years old, I told my mother,
"You're not my real mom.
You're my Earth mom,
And at night when I'm asleep,
I go back to my home planet."
As the years sped onwards,
I conceptualized myself as a three headed alien,
A Poet From Another Planet,
Acutely aware of my innate differences.
No explanation had I other than being extraterrestrial.
Those around me, too, seemed to sense I was "other."
Playground insults supported by adults who floated labels like
"Lazy," "Difficult," "Rude," "Deliberately Obtuse"
Over my head as if they were a crown,
Signifying I was queen of kingdom "Unlike Us."
No one looked deeper at the poor social skills ,
The rigidity, sensory difficulties, challenges with executive dysfunction.
It was easier to pretend I was in control,
Choosing the route of difficulty and belittlement.
It was only after I nearly succeeded in killing myself
That someone assembled the whole picture.
My story is not unique among women
Born into bodies and brains whose operating system is Autism.
We are the forgotten, the alienated, and plastered with assumptions,
Lost under the blind eye of those who spin tall tales of
"Only straight, white little boys can possibly be autistic!"
Generations of autistic women have known not a name for their difference,
Bogged down under self-loathing, eating disorders, and suicides,
Anything to cope with a world designed to break them
For the differences everyone noticed but no one could see.
Now that women are finally coming onto the scene,
A subtle shift in the awareness that the clinicians, teachers, doctors
Were missing a whole population of autistic people,
Answers are gate kept behind assessments that are thousands of dollars
And diagnosticians who've yet to see the error of their ways.
Peace of mind seems to be a right only of white autistic men
Who are lucky enough to have the "profile" of autism modeled after them.
It took 19 years, two suicide attempts, including 10 days in a coma
For someone to finally "see me,"
And I'm one of the lucky ones.
Answers were finally mine,
But understanding one's own brain should be a human right.
I think we can all agree:
The price of a diagnosis should not be your life.
Mar 7 · 284
The World Outside
The neighbors seem so vivacious
As they mull about outside my window,
Sun kissing their skin.
The mothers cling to their children,
And sweat clings to the aching muscles of workers
As they bustle,
Hustling mattresses out of the house
And building supplies in.
We exchange cautious smiles
As I sit here in the staleness of my room,
The monotony of this routine.
They are so alive.
I wish I was too.
Mar 3 · 220
Fear's Contusion
My soul is afraid
Of when love used to be dangerous,
When home was not synonymous with protection,
And when I wasn't safe
Even from myself.
Memories contuse my heart
And leave bitter embers on my brain.
I wonder when I will be able to let go
Of a past that should not hold so much power
Over a future I've worked so hard for.
Feb 22 · 1.1k
Calculating Consent
Academic conversations about consent are a pure form of agony,
Listening to students and Professor toss around the word like it's a hypothetical commodity,
As if there is question that autonomy and dignity belong to every living thing in that room.
We are asked to dissect the most intimate of physical safeties as if this is a lesson in biology,
Solve 'consent' like a particularly challenging calculus problem,
Pretend as if this didn't happen in the confines of my body.
It's excruciating to have to take an equation,
We'll start with y=mx+b,
And calculate which variables determine basic human decency.
I was young, female, gay, autistic, bipolar,
Clinging to his professions of love like they could stitch the gaping emotional wounds,
And somehow that didn't make me human when he did the math.
I don't know how to argue, Professor, with which philosophical tools,
Professor, that I was a person, Professor,
When he decided to **** me.
Feb 16 · 392
Saving Strain
My jaw has welded itself shut in an iron grip,
Teeth straining under the load as they are compressed
And ground together,
Aching joint failing to remind me to unclench.
What little sleep I have gotten has also sought to seal my mouth,
Until morning brings with it the sharp pain and popping I am now accustomed to.
Sores line my inner lip,
Pale, stinging pits reminding me how close I am teetering on the edge,
Body clinging to its composure amidst sleepless nights
And adrenaline baths.
A feeling like fire alternately surges up my sternum and over my shoulder,
The taste of stomach acid hot on my burning tongue.
I wonder how long I can keep this up
Until the shoulders , taut with paranoia and effort to keep me safe
Pull my very bones apart with aching muscles.
Perhaps I will be consumed from the inside,
Cracking open the same way my chest already feels.
What am I doing here,
Amongst the memories, the mournings, borrowed time?
I am trying desperately to save her from her certain fate
With love and worry and prayers to her God, the one I don't believe in.
I am also trying to save me, the little girl I used to be,
From the torment I know she will experience anyway,
Wishing fervently I could pull her through time and space
Into a world that isn't trying so hard to **** her for who she is,
The space she occupies unknowingly.
I'm haunted by the mouths of children, the words and hands of grown adults
Who did a thorough job of reducing her to mere mud and human filth.
That girl, young, wide-eyed, desperately lonely and confused,
Burning with self-loathing and pain no one will admit to causing,
Haunts me, climbs into bed and warms her frigid form with my body heat.
I can't save her,
The same way I can't save dying grandmothers or dead friends,
Yet my body is tormented because my mind is tormented.
I am cracking, slowly,
Pieces at a time.
But I'm not so easily bested now.
That little girl built armor and walls and weapons to guard herself,
So I down another cup of coffee,
Pour salt into the sores,
Crack my jaw,
And get back to work.
I have to save myself, too.
Pain erupts in my chest
Like sadness has just cracked my sternum
With its cold, gray hammer.
I cannot touch this hurt
With tears or bandages.
I am simply bleeding internally,
Wondering why anniversaries cut so deep,
But it's not that I nearly lost myself,
Held hands with the reaper.
It's that you preceded me death,
And I wonder why in the end it was you and not me.
Feb 8 · 1.2k
4am Haunting
Memories slink like silken specters
Across my barren walls
With sticky fingers that pick pocket
My peace of mind,
Steal my sleep,
Leaving sweaty handprints across my skin
And the faint taste of a scream that died on my tongue.
I tell myself that I am safe now.  
Not a soul has breathed in this room since I examined every cranny.
Even I am existing on borrowed air,
As sleep slips so dearly missed from my grasp.
I guard my secrets in darkness while 4 am lingers heavy in this space,
Wishing unconsciousness to take me to a land
Where my heart doesn’t race in terror at every noise,
The shame of what I allowed to be done to me doesn’t echo in my mind,
And the scars are not so tender to the touch.
If only I should be so lucky.
The ghosts are restless in the way they haunt my body tonight.
Jan 28 · 683
Crime Scene of Me
I say, “I’m having a hard time with my PTSD,”
The words thick in my mouth like I am choking
Or somehow allergic to this admission,
Body, killing itself in an effort to expel the allergen.
I am stuck at a crime scene,
Whole body present for the ****** of me.
I am watching them examine my clothing,
Searching for motive and signs of a struggle,
Nobody staunching the bleeding.
I am a cadaver to them,
Mangled wreckage of what once was and could never be again.
I see the yellow ‘police line’ being rolled out over and over in my mind,
Wondering why the only one watching him break me
Was my teddy bear who’d been cast onto the floor
And the mattress on which I was the sin he committed.
Sometimes I wonder if the blood stained as it ran from me.
Did he think about the ****** when he washed the sheets,
Or was this just another day for him,
He who is lucky enough to inhabit a whole body?
What was it for him about the act of making ghosts,
Leaving me half dead every time,
How he choked the air from my body,
Just enough to separate my soul from my physical form
But never finished the job?
Now, I haunt this in-between space
A purgatory of murdered and broken pieces,
Parts too dissimilar to be reconstructed.
I wonder how they all used to fit into a whole
When their jagged edges now mar my skin,
Spilling blood that no longer runs red in my veins.
It’s blue like the sheets on his bed,
Steel gray for the threat of the sword he wedged under the mattress,
And purple like bite mark bruises up my thighs,
How he opened his mouth and somehow closed mine,
Stole the syllables off my freshly kissed lips,
The taste of morning breath and acid fear welded to my tongue.
I am left to carry my own dead body with hands that don’t feel fully mine.
They’ve left bruises of their own but none on his skin.
There’s no signs of an external struggle,
No blood stored under my fingernails,
Yet I wear the internal wounds like armor.
Closed doors don’t erase the existence of violence.
What happens in silence still leaves an echo,
Even if it’s only the drip of tears on the pillowcase.
I used to be lucky enough to inhabit a whole body,
But he struck me dead at the root of my innocence,
And now I am here telling you a ghost story.
When I say, “I am struggling with my PTSD,”
I mean I am a stuck at the crime scene of me,
But the police are not coming because I didn’t know to ask for them.
How do you tell someone that love left the bruises and you let him
Because your world was too cold to differentiate between being kept warm
And having someone light you on fire?
How do you report a ****** from beyond your own grave?
The “Police Line: Do Not Cross”
Tells me where not to touch,
What to leave alone less the remembering begin again.
It tells me not to let others too close to the scene of the crime,
Not to let them see the evidence locked in my mind.
I am so tired of carrying around my own dead body,
Trying to feel safe in the same place
I once wished he’d just killed me.
How do you escape the crime scene
When the scene of the crime is your own body?
Jan 24 · 1.3k
Angry I Let You
I'm not angry that you hurt me.
I'm angry for the way fear stole the words from my mouth
And surprise bound my hands and legs to the bed.
I'm angry that my mind spun the dial and settled on freeze.
I'm not angry that you hurt me.
I'm angry that silence hung between us,
Thicker than the air I was struggling to breathe,
That the absence of syllables prevented me from giving name
To the violation.
I'm not angry that you hurt me.
I am angry that I let you,
That I convinced myself saying 'yes' after I'd already said 'no'
Meant it wasn't so bad after all.
I'm not angry that you hurt me.
I'm angry that others violated so many boundaries
I thought love was a race to cross the finish over every line I'd ever drawn,
That my best interest and your desires were somehow the same thing.
I am not angry that you hurt me.
I am angry I sought you as a protector to fight the demons YOU gave me,
That I thought you could save me from the fear you were causing.
I'm not angry that you hurt me.
I am angry that the walls are now caving in
Around the idea that I could ever be clean,
That I am alone with the thought I somehow did this to myself,
That had I listened and not been so hell bent on breaking free of the literal chains,
Not been searching for liberation from my childhood hurts ,
Or chasing my power in the line between '****' and '****',
I might still be a "gold-star lesbian" and not tainted goods.
I am not angry that you hurt me.
I am angry you might still get off to the pictures I sent you,
That my manic mental health crises were your free ticket to "play time."
I must have always reeked of angst and desperation,
Little girl playing dress up in a world she doesn't understand,
Seeking solace in a man twice her age,
But he would only seek to cage her in bars of his own making.
Meanwhile, Mother writes it off as having "bad taste in men,"
As if she was not a link in the chain of how I ended up there,
Neglecting to mention I did not consent to being manipulated by a predator.
I'm not angry that you hurt me.
I am angry that I thought seeing past the scars on my skin meant you loved me,
That acknowledging how others had hurt me meant you wouldn't do the same.
I am angry that when your face appeared in my nightmares
I let you tell me I was mistaken,
That when I began to hate the word **** and couldn't stand it to be mentioned,
I believed you when you said it had never happened.
I'm not angry you hurt me.
I'm ashamed it took me a year to leave
Even when you drowned me in enough red flags to make a Matador proud
Because I thought I could fix you.
Was I not broken too?
You made me feel like I owed you for loving me through the cracks,
And I am not one to skip out on debts.
I'm not angry that you hurt me.
I'm angry you stole the skin off my body and safety from my mind,
And I didn't fight back.
I wish you had just killed me so they can't say I was asking for it.
Was that not the purpose of the sword wedged under the mattress?
You should have finished the job when you choked me,
So I don't have to live with this.
I'm not angry that you hurt me.
I'm angry that I didn't stop it.
I'm not angry that you hurt me.
I'm angry that I let you.
Jan 20 · 182
Elements of Change
This is to say that Storm Clouds
Are the accumulation of water in the air,
That Hate is the buildup of prejudice and fear,
That Change is when humans grow tired
Of hearing the rain fall on deaf ears,
Watching people with umbrellas wondering
Why those without are getting wet.
This is to call upon Love,
The accumulation of Compassion,
Encourager of Empathy,
The feeling of sunshine when you smile at me.
Hope is the keeper of faith,
Knowledge that tomorrow isn't always the same,
That even in the dark months, sunlight is inevitable,
And eventually we all reach the end of the tunnel,
Hope knows sometimes Change has to Rain down
Upon the lands of dry grass and wildfires,
That floods are a risk when the dirt has lost its purpose,
But new foliage grows where the ground once cried out,
So we may one day sustain ourselves on the land
We thought could never bear more life,
The world we thought could never Change.
Jan 20 · 661
A Woman Now
I am not the girl you made me.
I am the woman who grew out of the decay,
The dirt and soot and open grave
You once attempted to shove me into.
I am not the girl who shook like a child,
Clutched her teddy bear after you ***** her.
I am the woman with the sword
You once wedged under the mattress.
It's mine now, along with my dignity.
I will cut you when you dare enter my nightmares.
I am a woman now.
And you're just a man on a long list of men
Who never get to touch my life anymore.
I am THE woman now,
And you're just small.
Jan 18 · 433
Darkness of Dreaming
I am touched every night
By the darkness,
The twisted, pale fantasies of an unconscious mind.
I am always the great protector,
Trying to save them from the evil he inflicted upon me.
It never works.
How cruel is it that I can remove him from everywhere
But my mind?
Jan 16 · 558
Me Enough
I want so badly to be me enough
That it doesn't matter how crazy I am.
Jan 16 · 322
Passing Life
In a world full of deadlines and assignments,
I often wonder if I am getting credit for my life.
Did I pass the exam because I didn't want to die today?
Am I succeeding for inhabiting a level state of consciousness?
Will I be penalized for the fatigue or the anxious habits,
The inevitable compulsions?
Do they see below my skin where the turmoil lays?
Are my bones enough to hold me up under the weight
Of my perfectionism and pressure for success?
Am I too slow or different in a world that demands I exist in a system?
Am I enough in the course of Planet Earth?
Is who I am what they want,
And does it matter?
Is there extra credit for taking a shower and complying with medication?
Professor, did I achieve an A?
Jan 11 · 388
My heartbeat trips over its own feet,
Running as if towards the greatest surprise
And simultaneously from the end of the world.
Jan 9 · 531
Ritual, Repeat
"It's just a thought."
"It's just an image."
But still I make the demanded pilgrimage.
A triple lock.
A double check,
Compulsive look under the bed.
Oh, how strange!
Silly me!
Yet, I go.
I must repeat.
Therapist says I have OCD.
Dec 2020 · 805
I dream so vividly
That reality forgets where its edges lay
And the physical sensation
Lingers on my skin.
Dec 2020 · 726
I was not designed to be an object,
And yet a man I once loved
Tried to claim me as such,
Like my body was his
And nothing more than a carbon mass
Whose blood did not run red in my veins.
I am more than the nickname on his tongue
And the doll for *** he made me,
Not a toy to be ripped apart
Into plastic pieces,
Until all I owned was my name.
My body and mind were not free real estate
For him to occupy rent free.
I am not a parking lot for the dumpster fire
Of his problems.
I exist in this world to own myself above all else.
This girl is not an object.
I did not deserve to have my body taken from me.
Dec 2020 · 2.3k
Epitaph for My Depression
Epitaph for My Depression
My depression is the dead, ugly thing in the corner,
The decaying creature whose carcass you don’t want to touch
Lest its innards, festering and bloated with the gasses of decomposition,
Explode on you.
My depression cannot be tuned up in a funeral home.
It’s wearing toe tags in the morgue.
They say, “We know you want to bury it.
For the love of God, choose a closed casket.”
My depression is lonesome.
It has no friends to attend the funeral.
It hasn’t spoken to a human being save for whispering in my ear.
You cannot maintain connections
When you’re too busy sinking into the floor
As the gravity of this sadness pulls you into Earth’s core.
My depression is unholy.
There are no biblical words to exorcise this demon,
No priest who wants to deliver this service.
They are thinking good riddance when I toss dirt into the grave.
The epitaph on the headstone reads,
“It comes when it’s not called.
It lingers where it’s unwelcome,
Yet I cry now that it’s buried.
Maybe they are tears of joy.”
Yet, depression rises from the dead like Lazarus from the tomb.
No saint is my depression.
It is more resemblant of a character in a poorly made zombie movie.
Limbs hanging from sinews and a clear desire to consume my brain
The same way it lays ruin to my life.
I have tried to **** my depression many times,
Made weapons out of diet and exercise,
Swung therapy like a sword,
Made bombs out of sheer will power
And mortar out of medications.
I have even attempted to **** my body,
To put an end to this endless circle of fire,
But this illness and I forgot
That without my physical form, we are both homeless,
And we have already spent too many hours washed up and soaking wet
In the cold December air on my mind’s street corners.
Depression has become synonymous with resurrection,
But how is it being saved?
It does not believe in a power greater than its own.
There have been many tombstones and many epitaphs.
A “Here rests depression in solemn, silent repose.”
An “Its lingering malice revives it out of spite.”
An “I’m sorry you’re hurting.”
A “Please make it stop.”
They read:
“Depression is not romantic.
Don’t play dress up in a game you don’t understand.
Depression’s persistently pretty pimpin’ is really old by now.
Please, dear grounds keeper, do not dig here!
Have you tried melatonin for your eternal sleep insomnia?
I am sorry you’re so angry that you cannot stay buried,
But I promise Satan will happily bless and keep you
If you would refrain from all future reincarnation.”
Still, I am always writing new epitaphs
When depression comes to visit.
It’s as reliable as the seasons and heavy as the world’s mass.
I no longer hate my depression.
I just am tired of sitting in a graveyard
While my depression isn’t dead.
Nov 2020 · 841
Fire and mortar
Dust to dust
The sky stained red
From ashes and rust
The flames reach new heights.
They lick the sky,
Burning new trenches.
I wish I could say why.
Nov 2020 · 260
Teach me to go
Where the sky meets the ocean,
My soul is at peace,
And my heart isn't broken.
Nov 2020 · 1.8k
Welcome to the Club
Welcome to the club.
The "Should've stayed home" club.
The "I'll never be safe" club.  
The "I tried to say 'no!'" club.
The "He refused to stop" club.
The "I froze and went limp" club.
The "I'll never be the same" club.
The "There's no handbook for being *****" club.
It was not your fault.
You're safe now.
I am so sorry you're here.
Nov 2020 · 253
Depression is the swamp monster,
The murk and mud in the water.
It makes it difficult to see the bottom
Or know how deep it goes.
Nov 2020 · 433
The world warps
And goes fuzzy around the edges
Like I am not real,
A place holder or chest piece.
My limbs do not move like they are mine,
As if they are foreign bodies attached to my trunk.
The floor is the only solace.
I melt into the stiff boards and rough carpet
Until the world tilts back and becomes
Whole again.
Nov 2020 · 557
My Sun
I love her the way the stars love the sun.
She is the brilliant light in my infinite universe,
Encouraging me to shine brighter myself.
Sometimes the space vacuum is cold or dark,
But we are lighting it up,
Nov 2020 · 236
It feels like the skin has been stripped from my body,
Like I am a raw house unable to contain this feeling.
Sounds are dissonant and salt to the wound.
My synapses are buzzing through every tissue.
I am so whole and yet so incomplete,
Angry, electrified, and scared.
This body of mine does not feel like a habitat.
It is more like a zoo enclosure.
I wonder when people will stop gawking at me
Like I am some caged animal.
I am wild.
I am easily provoked when afraid.
Please do not tap the class.
Please do not feed the animals.
Leave me where the ground cries out in anguish
For the blood of my psyche shed in the tall grass.
I was not made for this.
I am not a performer in some circus, some exotic parade.
They have stripped me of my skin,
And this body does not feel like home anymore.
Nov 2020 · 203
Her Jewelry
They're dividing up my grandmother's jewelry,
An act that feels more final than death.
I like to think she rests easy as she watches
The women she loves wear what was once hers.
They ask me to choose my top 3 pieces,
And how do I?
How do I choose which pieces of her I want to wear on my body
Like armor, like memories of made of gold or silver?
How do I choose between her trip to the Met Museum
Or the pin with the propeller signalling she was the
First licensed female pilot in the state of Kentucky?
What does it say about me this is the one time I wish she hadn't gotten her wings?
I want to wear her artist spirit.
I already have her poet's blood running through me.
This woman, in all her fiery, tender ways
Touches my life.
I hope she'd be proud I'm wearing her jewelry.
So many decisions to make.
Nov 2020 · 270
Keep me away from myself.
It is not safe to exist in this body.
Nov 2020 · 444
Irritation Dragon
Irritation is the dragon
That breathes fire and destruction
Should I dare to open my mouth.
Nov 2020 · 418
The fire ignites at take-off
And grows as I exit the stratosphere.
But it burns even hotter upon re-entry.
I am often at my brightest right before
A crash landing.
Nov 2020 · 251
His Fears
He is scared that I'll go someplace he can't reach me,
So he's chosen not to connect at all.
I do not intend to be absent,
But I wish he knew
It hurts equally to regret love not given
As it does to lose love you've given your all.
Regretting time not spent and care not shown
Is a special kind of hell I do not wish upon him.
Oct 2020 · 311
Flat Affect
I am a member of the Flat Affect Society,
Similar to the Flat Earth Society.
My existence is in two dimensions,
Is unreal,
Is like dragging a bag of bones
And me through concrete.
Was I not on top of the world 2 weeks ago?
Oct 2020 · 356
Caffeinated Desperation
I drink Redbull for dissociation,
Trying to caffeinate my desperation,
As if I could vibrate into the 4th dimension
To find myself again.
Oct 2020 · 453
My Existence
My existence is like a million tiny stars,
All bright burst followed by infinite blackness.
It is supernovas then the space vacuum.
It would be  loud
If anyone could hear it.
Oct 2020 · 214
She runs amok without restraint
In pursuit of the high,
The thrill of the chase.

She's up for a cigarette
And down several pounds.
You'll find her naked outside the house.

They can force medication
But can't treat denial.
The CPS case is going to trial.

Her bipolar diagnosis
Remains hard to accept,
But stability is better than manic distress.

She could lose it all quickly.
No time for delay
Lest she face an endless stream of regret.

I understand her pain,
For I've walked this road too,
But with the right help she can make it through.

I hope she'll make haste in  her recovery,
That she'll see on the other side
Is a taste of what it means to be alive.
Oct 2020 · 833
Let's be clear,
Compassion is not a kind of currency.
****** favors are not a type of contract.
The pictures he received were not consent.
My outfit is not an open invitation,
And there's no justification for what he did.
Oct 2020 · 3.7k
Bipolar Wish
My bipolar fantasy is that one day,
I’m going to come home and leave my bipolar at the door,
Scatter it along with muddy boots and raincoats and winter mittens
I have no use for currently,
That I’m going to take it off and enter my house unencumbered.
My bipolar dream is that I’m going to go to bed tonight
Without measuring my sleep,
Wondering if it’s an indication of mania or depression,
If it’s stress or I need medication to push me into a nocturnal daze,
The haze of which will bleed over into daytime.
My bipolar wish is that this illness
That I lug around like a suitcase made of brick
Might lighten in load or unpack itself once in a while,
That it will not brand me as a traveler on a road
Pockmarked with landmines and loneliness.
I wish that this suitcase did not bear the mark of mental illness.
My bipolar life is a story,
One laid out in the lines of swinging,
Of flying and then falling
Before realizing they are often too closely related to tell the difference.
My story is written in the narrow margins between creativity and hospitalization.
Sometimes the two occur together.
My life’s manuscript is forever alternating
Between the way the night sky speaks to me
Or the way the bathroom smells like my blood.
It is being abuzz with electricity and then short circuiting your battery
And not being able to move.
My bipolar song is a tune alternating between grandiosity,
All hail my intelligence and beauty (psych!)
Before falling into apathy and self-loathing.
Sometimes it’s not knowing what version of me I’m going to wake up to in the morning.
My bipolar hope is that the dizzying combo of diet, exercise, and daily medication
Will keep me out of that 1 in 5 number I’ve danced with so perilously,
Keep me off of those bridge ledges and out from empty pill bottles,
Keep me alive in my skin even in this painful reality.
My bipolar fear is that when mania and depression have a love child
And mixed mania runs amuck in its terrible two’s,
The anger will taint the feelings of loved ones.
I fear callous words uttered insouciantly in my own misery,
Slithering from my mouth agonizingly slowly yet too quickly to stop
Might wound those I care for when I do not mean it.
My distress and agitation sometimes equal cranky.
My bipolar prayer is that when energy plus impulsiveness plus danger is no longer
A concept I understand collaborate,
Those around me know this is not who I am.
My mood is a high-flyer, a free-faller, and an everywhere in between,
But that is not my personality.
I am an optimist, a free thinker, creator, compassion giver.
My story is broader than the confines of bipolar.
I am sometimes aflame and others underwater,
But I weather it all with a twisted sense of humor.
I am a person before I am bipolar.
Oct 2020 · 178
Manic/ Keep Up
He says, "When she's manic like this, I can't keep up with her!"
He is lost,
Lost in the endless sea of my energy,
In the tsunamis of syllables
And the way the sun touches my skin, flowing through me.
I am a force to be reckoned with,
Daughter of the sky,
Made from dust of the stars.
They beckon to me with their brilliance
And the gleam of secrets they will not share.
I want to know where the edges of their shine go,
Want them to swallow me into their vastness.
I am a thunderstorm,
The gale force winds that shake the very earth he walks on.
My synapses connect at light speeds,
Weaving the strands of the universe.
I am a power,
Muse of the way the leaves quake and change color,
Poet to Mother Nature.
Of course he cannot keep up.
It is hard to run in flip flops!
Oct 2020 · 71
The electricity flows through my bones,
Making love through my synapses
As it courses through my system.
I am alive with the buzz,
The heat and cacophony.
I must share this with the world,
Charge the very air with my existence.
I could power the whole universe
If only some of it would leave my body.
Sep 2020 · 1.2k
The Price
The price of being alive
Is coping with the memories of what I nearly
Didn't survive.
Next page