I just lost my best friend.

This person, this human, with whom I shared my whole life.

I thought we were inseparable. I thought wrong.


Now you are just a stranger. We pass on the street and you don't even glance in my direction.

I get it. Its all my fault really. I'm so ******* broken that I don't blame you for leaving. I am too much to handle, there will be no return on investment or stock payouts. I will never be anything. You bought high, cut your losses and sold low. It will stay there; the low.

I don't blame you for leaving me. I wish I could leave me, too.

-t.s.

How is it that I feel numbness and such pain all at once?

I feel the tears welling in my eyes but they never break through. I feel the pressure, the weight on my chest but tenseness all over my body. I feel angry, hurt, sad, and nothing all at the same time.

I can't focus on anything, I am debilitated. I can't eat, I can't sleep, I can't be.

I need to speak but it weighs so heavy on my mind.

"They don't love you."

"You aren't good enough."


I can't work, I can't sleep, I can't breathe.
This feeling is suffocating me slowly.
Let me out, let me speak, let me be who I am without judgement because I already judge myself enough for the both of us.

-t.s.

I'll dump this here so your words stop stinging.

This community ***** the venom out with each poisonous thing I post.


"You're a kind-hearted person with good intentions, but you hurt so many people. You say you're their friend, but you've entirely abandoned them, despite the lengths they've gone to to help you or to support you. If you truly care about someone, reach out to them, even just to say hi. Stop hurting the people who care about you the most."

With no love whatsoever, Some ******* on the Internet



-t.s.

LSD to hallucinate
Marijuana for stillness
Alcohol to numb the pain


All I wonder is

Who needs drugs when we have music?


-t.s.

Bokeh flares glitter.

Give me love
Give me love
Give me love

Spirals of white.

Give me love
Give me love
Give me love

Dancing yellow light screeches.
Overwhelming prisms flash through.
Angry heated red sets fire.
Meadow green comforts, too.

I close my eyes and I listen.

I see a masterpiece painted behind my eyes, sitting, waiting to be discovered.

Encovered. Enearthed. A firework display of passion errupting in time

One and two and three and four ...

Blood, oceans, dirt, sun

The words bring the passion and the passion brings the show.


The rhythm creates the motion, gives life to the color.


Color.

Give me love
Give me love
Give me love

Every song has color.
Every song has a display.
All we need to do is close our eyes and wait and

Take the time to listen.

-t.s.

'Likes' are not hugs.

Comments are not kisses.

Views are not a hand holding mine.

And yet I crave this attention more than anything. Eyes stretched wide, I live for that next hit, the next 'like'. I lose sleep over how many views I need to keep going. I am a wasteland of media, searching for any signs of life.

I am despirate.


I am addicted.



I am far from social.

-t.s.

Shoved in a plastic grocery bag under the boxes of Christmas decorations is where I found my crazy pants today.

Dusty and discarded, I looked at them. They were softer than I remember.

When I would act irrational or angry or even sleepy, my family gave it the term 'cranky pants' 'angry pants' or ' sleepy pants'. It was a kind way to say, "hey stop acting ridiculous!"

When I was committed to a psychiatric facility, I wasn't allowed to wear the clothes I had on because it posed a threat or hazard to my safety or that of the other patients. They gave you scrubs instead. They were cold and miserable.

One afternoon, I saw one of the other patients wearing sweatpants and I was thrilled to see that was an option. I spent 90% of my time there fighting to get a pair. Finally on day 9, I was gifted a beautiful pair of Heather white sweatpants that had elastic at the bottom and smelled like bleach.

My crazy pants.

I wore them because I was crazy, or so I told myself.

When I was discharged, I got to keep them and would occasionally wear them again but mostly when I felt more bipolar swings happening.

They found their way to a bag in the closet and remained there for months.

Just like my bipolar swings, they hid for a while, stagnant, waiting.

And just like my bipolar swings, they found their way back and now that's all I want to wear. My loony, angry, depressed, crazy pants.

-t.s.

I want to be hit by a car.

I want it to run me over twice just to make sure I'm dead.

I want to get in a fight so I come up on the wrong end, dead.

I want to feel a cold knife against the muscles, the bones.

I want to be crushed by a tree or rhinoceros, doesn't matter what.

I want to feel my bones snap and my skin tear.


I want to feel anything.
I want to feel nothing.
I want to be gone.

-t.s.

I want to feel your bones crush in my hands.
I want to feel your skull crunch under my feet.
I want to cause pain.
I want to make chaos.

I am angry.

I want to break, tear, smash, throw, and shred.
I want you to feel just a fraction of this pain.

But that's not just why I'm angry.
I am angry because I am sad when happy things happen.
I am angry because it doesn't change.
I am angry because it won't change.
I am angry because it all changes so quickly.
I am angry because I am angry.

I can't shut it off or shut it out.

I am consumed.

I am angry.

-t.s.

I won't eat
I won't sleep
I won't brush my teeth

Instead I write.

I won't cry
I won't laugh
I won't see my friends

Instead I write.


Eating does not fill me. When I try to sleep, I toss and turn. No need to brush my teeth when I won't go outside.

Stories are my nourishment. I drift off to dreamland in prose. My soul is cleansed with antonyms and synonyms, similes and metaphors.

Crying brings no freeing feeling. Laughing holds no joy. Friends will soon just leave me and take with them my heart.

I pour my tears into a song to convey all that I feel. I laugh along with Shakespeare as he inspires every play. All my friends are pencils because they're useful and won't leave. And if one happens to skip away, break or reach an end; aisle 4, below the staplers, I can always buy some more.

You promised.

You swore.

You said you would.


We drank a little whiskey and I smiled at your goofy grin. I laughed when you bet me a stop sign that I would get sick on my 21st. Little did you know, I can handle my liquor  magnificently. We put some music on and swung-out to that 40s rhythm.


You promised you loved me.

You swore you would never leave.

You said you would always hold my hand.


I turned 21 last week and I sat in my cold apartment, alone. I did not drink, I did not smile, I did not laugh, I did not dance. Instead tears burned through my cheeks like acid rain. Instead my nose leaked into countless tissues. Instead I ignored my world.


The promises are broken.

Swearing is just curse words, now.

My hand is empty.


I turned 21 last week. I did not get sick. Now, all I can think is




Where the hell is my stop sign?

-t.s.

I hate to see you doing well.
I know its shallow, petty, and sad

but call me all those things
because right now I'd rather you be alone.

You should be alone
after what you did to me.  

How is it that I'm the one fighting demons you created
and you're running with my dream that we created together?

I hate that you're doing well
and I wish that you weren't.

-t.s.

9:47 I sit on my couch, staring at my bed.

I'm not supposed to lay down until at least 10 o'clock.

It's supposed to "ward away depressive states" so I don't "stay in bed all day long."


9:52 If I go just a little early, that won't be a big deal, right?

No, I better listen. I better try.


9:55 Only five more minutes.

That's funny. We used to use that to avoid going to bed, now I'm using it to count down until I can.


9:58 Do I have everything I need? The temperature is set so I won't get too hot? I've got my glass of water, my phone charger, my fuzzy socks?


10:00 Sweet relief.


I'll never leave you again.

I promise.  


"Depressive state", my ***.  This is the only place I can be safe. The only place I'm home.


-t.s.

I swore I'd never write about you again.


You aren't supposed to be worth my time.


But my time is worthless and my hand knows nothing besides you.

-t.s.

Because we're all just a little messed up.

Some of us are a lot of messed up.

We hide and hope people never see it but what can we do?

How do we hide who we are?



And who we are is nothing.

-t.s.

I don't like new notebooks.

I mean, I like new, beautiful, clean, pristine notebooks,
but I don't like using them.

I don't want to ruin it.

I open up to the first page and it's so blank, so white, so pure,
there's not an imperfection in sight.

I don't want to use it because I don't want to mess it up. I want it to stay perfect, and beautiful.
I don't want that inevitable ****** drawing or poem to **** it up.
I don't want my uncleanliness, my messiness to spread to something so perfect.

I do end up using it. If I didn't, I'd just have a bunch of empty notebooks lying around which honestly I'd prefer.
But I take forever to do it, to break the seal.

I have to have the perfect thing to ruin perfection because if it's not perfect, it's not worth it to ruin it.

It goes two ways though:

The first entry is perfect, beautiful, inspiring, deep,
and then I never use that book again.
Because now it's perfection is magnified.
I couldn't possibly follow it up with something better or just as good,
and it's quite possible that the more I try to come up with something good to match, the initial piece deteriorates and it becomes disappointing, thus resulting in the notebook not being used.

The second way this goes is the first entry is trash.
It's disgraceful and I want to tear it out
but suddenly the book becomes less daunting, less intimidating because now, it's imperfect.
Every entry to follow doesn't have to live up to some grand standard.
But I'm reminded everytime I use that book that I failed, that I created garbage.
It makes everything that comes after, not as good as what I want to do, it lacks passion.
If I tear out the initial entry, the cycle starts over.

No matter which way you spin it, we just don't get along. I end up with a bunch of half used, disappointing books sitting around haunting me as I walk by.
A notebook is reflective of who you are,
it displays the deepest parts of you.

What if your unhappy with what you see on the page?

What if what you see isn't you?

What if, this blank, empty page of nothingness is better than what you are?

Why would you want to ruin something so pure and perfect with your mess?

Because nothing you ever write, draw, sketch, compose or create on it will ever be as good as it's once held purity.

-t.s.

Help me, I am drowning in my own self hating words.
I hate you.
I hate you.
I hate you.
Clings around my neck.

Help me, I am losing on this battlefield alone.
You are worthless.
You are worthless.
You are worthless.
Covers up my screams.

Help me, I am fading into darkened monsters, now.
I am sorry.
I am sorry.
I am sorry.

It is time to say goodbye.

-t.s.

I am not smart like the other girls.

I am not as pretty,
nor as charming,
or sweet.

I am not like the other girls.


I never will be.

- t.s.