i want to sleep, but i can't
i want to talk, but i can't

and as i have anxiety, i suffer quietly and write in my diary as tears fall down my face

i'm not tired
i'm still awake

my mind is racing, just give me a brake
my head aches
i'm going insane
its a sunday at 3am, come join me

i really want to sleep, but i can't
why, i don't know why

i see the monster on the side of my bed, and as it enters my head it says, "do you want to be dead instead?"

why
why now

Broken, shattered, replying with silence& shrugs to Earnest enquiries,
Surprised when my handwriting doesn't look indecipherable
I find myself talking to
The one person here who doesn't reply with "I feel the same".
Because,
How many broken parts can swim together
In this ocean notorious for drowning little lost boys & girls & neithers?

I'm having the same breakdown she is...
You'd think I'd be able to help her.
The realisation that I can't sets in &
There follows the waves and currents
That twist around me, drag me by the ****** wrists down,
And my head submerges before I get a chance to scream -
"Worthless; Idiot; *******; Someone, **** me" I am drowning,
Someone, help me...

I do not signal.
I watch, as she is crowded into recovery -
By the people who have worth,
Who do not lose their voices in times like these.
I make no sign as she swims to the shallow end,
As she talks about her dreams,
The future she wants,
She will have.
And I am happy for her.

She does not know she must have pulled me in deeper with her thrashing,
And so I remain silent
So as not to pull her in again.
If silence is violence,
As we all know it is,
We must all have convinced ourselves
That we are each,
Individually,
The only exception.

Sometimes I don't belong.
"10 things all women do",
screams the headline
Not me, I think, scrolling along.
"every man should try this", demands the caption.
And I just sit here thinking, not for me.
Do they even understand a fraction
Of what it's like to be
Here, in the middle, in between?
"just another queer millenial"
Is that what they see?
Can it really be that they reduce me
To that? Because I know
That I am so much more
But still, this is a blow
That strikes hard
And it hurts.
Am I allowed to cry?
Under which of society's odd rules should I
Handle my feelings about this?
Because men, as it is,
Are unmanly when they let tears flow.
Women, however, are expected to do so.
Now what do I do?
I could lose myself in thinking this through
Over and over again.
My circling thoughts never come to a halt.
There's just this one thing I know:
It is not my fault
That I can't seem to fit in.
That's the way it has always been.
One gets used to it, you know?
Just keep fighting and grow
up to be who you want to be.

Two chains
One was a gift,
The other, I got myself.

One, a gift, a symbol
Of beauty, prettiness,
I wore it for a performance
I played the prettybird
Pink dress, purple legs,
It's just a performance
Perfect hair & pretty little dance,
It's just a performance

One, i chose, a symbol
Of movement, otherness,
I wear it always,
While I play the happy daughter
Grey pants, white shirt & tie,
It's just a performance.
Neat hair & infinite patience,
It's just a performance
Listening to lectures I've heard so many times I've rehearsed responding,
And you'll never know it's just a performance.

This is mine
These crumbling walls,
Peeling paint
And faded gold statues
You put here
And it is mine,
I place flowers in every crack,
Spill dyes of the rainbow across all the walls,
You track mud across my floors and tell me to take better care
Of my temple
I scrub the floors as you leave
And look up at paintings I never loved
Taking them down, I sigh at the detailing on their frames,
See, I can appreciate how hard it is to make something
Even when I don’t like it
Someone else loved these paintings, I’m sure,
So do not come in here and condemn me
For taking them down
I am not destroying anything, this place is destroying itself
I cannot stay in a this building when it is falling apart,
Let me fix it
Leave me and let me fix it
I know how to build, let me fix it
Let me fix it
Let me fix it
I don’t care,
I don’t care,
Stop saying my body is a temple
When you do not see the damage done to it,
You cannot judge me wanting something done about it
I am not sick, I am not crazy, I am not out of my mind
I don’t care how beautiful you think it is,
I am breaking down
This is not a sickness.
This is a desire to redecorate.
Because this is not your temple.
This is mine.
These crumbling walls,
Peeling paint
And faded gold statues
You put here.
And it is mine to repair.