I.
my lips
sewed together
with perfectly stitched thread
through thin needle holes

the wounds
still wounds
not healed
over the years

the daily torture
of wanting to speak
but not being able
to tell


II.
my hands
shaking
excessively clinging
to the thin rubber band

my voice
trembling
as i try to unwrap
one syllable after another

the aching in the throat
as i try to describe
in as little detail
the things i went through

III.
as soon
as the words
left my mouth
almost as silent
as a short breath

i leave
the room
you sitting there
trying to grasp

what i had just coughed up
and disappeard
directly after
realizing i actually did

IV.
i am nowhere
and everywhere
at once
i am there again

you try to unwrap
the tangled words
the things unsaid
the thoughts not spoken

i slip out of reality
and suddenly
i hear you say
loud and clearly

"It was not your fault. It never was and it never will be."

Here's to the kids
who skip school
but
not for alcohol
not for drugs
not for shopping
not because they're lazy
not as a joke
but those kids
that are afraid of it
that can't speak in class
that feel like they're dying walking through the halls
that feel physically sick getting called on
that get tension pains from the pressure put on them
that know how it is to live in a generation
that still doesn't accept mental illness
as much as it accepts physical illness
and that still forces kids
into situations that will leave them traumatized
at the end of the day
and will keep them up at night
for the next four years

the girl sitting next to the door
frequently
tapping her feet on the floor
when you look her in the eyes
she'll hide her face and look away
what would you say if you'd recognize
her body's just made of anxiety

I still remember
the look in your eyes
when I was standing
in front of the building
crying and shaking
you came down the stairs
asking what happened
you opened the door
not letting me out of your view
together we climbed the stairs
and when we were inside
i saw that you cried
in your room
when you were alone
and suddenly i knew
nobody's perfect
*- therapists can have therapists too

i'm seeing a psychoanalytic therapist
they want to analyze me
because my so called life has turned into the scariest
and somehow in a country of freedom i can't be free
they want to analyze me like a mathematician
analyzes the graph of an unknown function
psychiatric ward it says in the papers for my admission
i'm not crazy somebody please give me a definition
how do you think you can analyze a human
you can't look inside my mind
where all my thoughts are blooming
creating my emotions, feelings or something of an other kind
why do all my actions need a reason
how do you know i didn't write that poem
just to show them how i see the world
it doesn't necessarily mean i'm broken
just because you do not understand
doesn't mean I suffer from some unknown disease
why analyze a masterpiece
cause that's what every single human is

I don't want to be seen,
yet I wish for someone
to finally really see me.

I don't want to be heard,
yet I wish for someone
to finally listen to me.

I don't want to feel,
yet I wish for someone
or something
to finally make me feel.

I don't want to exist,
yet I wish for someone
or something
to finally make me want to.

Maybe I have to be that someone.
Or something.

I remember sitting in the garden of my therapists office, trying to feel the sun on my skin.
She asks me if I can feel the warmth and no matter how hard I try, I can't seem to find it.

It took me 14 years to say those few words that changed everything.
When my lips formed the whispered sentences, my shaking body suddenly felt so very different, even though the same things I was talking about happened to the same body.

When you start telling the truth, even if you can't build up the courage to speak all of it, a few words are enough, it becomes reality.
It's been real all this time, but now that it's entered someone elses mind, you can't take it back.

And maybe that's what it takes. To start your healing.

Speak your truth, even if your voice is shaking.

She told her
about the way her words
make her actions way more reasonable.

About the feeling
she gets when leaving the room
but taking the words with her.

About the thoughts
spinning and spinning
but never stopping.

She wanted to tell her
about the importance
of her words.

About the meaning
her actions have
and will always have.

About the cold
that gets a bit warmer
every time she looks at her.

About the courage
and faith
that she restores in her.

How long has it been
since I last left my house?
Didn't let anyone in,
didn't go out.

Day after day
I sat in silence,
tryna find a way
out of my shyness.

Tried to get back some energy,
but all I found
was apathy
so on I drowned.

Swallowed by the darkness,
unaware of my surroundings.

It could've been a day
or a year,
I wouldn't be able to say,
how long it's actually been.

Words stuck in my lungs for months
Suddenly became butterflies escaping my mouth
And I didn't have to be afraid
Because you made sure to save them inside of your head
Every single one of them

You encouraged me to cut the flowers
Growing in my lungs, preventing me from breathing
Like weeds I unplucked them
And you made sure to save them

You dried them between the pages of your book

Took once or twice a look
But never ever dared to throw them away

They say,
the ones who love you
hurt you the most.
I don't think that's fair.
Why would I get hurt
for your love,
but you wouldn't have to do a thing
for mine?
If you'd really love me,
you'd try to prevent me from hurting.
But what you do
is hurting me on purpose,
every single time.
And that's not fair.
And that's why I have to leave.
*-I don't think my goodbye would hurt you as much as you hurt me over the years

I have control over this

I tell myself as I open the same drawer eight times in a row and reorganize it in the same way over and over


I will be on time

I think locking the door only to unlock it the next second to check if I put everything in the right place before leaving


I am going to get a full night's sleep today

I assure myself whilst rushing through the flat with already another seven tasks in mind that need to be completed before going to bed


I do not need to be worried

I answer myself regarding my reoccurring thoughts of thread and fear of losing control


I've got this

I whisper collapsing on the floor after excessively cleaning the apartment at three in the morning