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sage Jul 11
i sit upright, cross legged, chest heavy with ghosts
and transparent in a trapped beam of daybreak.
my back against the nightstand that was my grandfathers before mine.
he is dead and the top two drawers do not close right.

in the first lies a razor blade i have not used since i was 17,
it sits atop a birthday card from someone i can’t truthfully still call a friend
we don’t speak
but there is still a home for her in my life, the bed made and warm, should she ever choose to return.

there are a hundred pictures strewn around of someone i no longer am
i feel the weight of her in this place
i paint the walls and strip the bed and throw away my clothes
but this is still her room, not mine.
i can hear her crying late at night when the tissue paper curtains let in too much light to sleep

i don’t look like her anymore
she feels dead, is dead, was dead the moment i stopped being her and became someone else
but when i flip through my life like a waiting room magazine i cannot find where it happened

i know she was afraid of losing herself
i remember the fear, heavy and cold wrapped around my spine, crawling into my rib cage
i don’t know how to tell her i did, and i’m happier for it
she is lost and she is gone and i am free so WHY can i not escape
why does my head fill with static when i think about my life for too long

i clean her things, finally throwing away the memories that mean nothing beyond the act of rememberance
letting go of a life that no longer feels like mine
grieving a death that didn’t happen
i wonder if that’s why my friends don’t speak to me
because i am not myself, and yet i can’t be anything else
i put that thought in a box with the other things and set it aside for the dump

this room is mine for the next two months,
after that i’ll run back to the damp safety of another city where her ghost cannot find me
and i’ll find the peace she could not
and, just maybe, one day i will catch my own eye in the mirror
and she won’t be dead at all
she’ll be right where i left her

until then, i’ll throw away her things, paint the walls again, exorcise my cell until i can lie down and breathe without the hand around my throat
i don’t know how to feel about my younger self. i know even less how she would feel about me
sage Apr 3
something is rotting inside of me.
i feel its heaviness spread from the centre of my chest
i know it is not my heart, for it sits right behind my sternum.
but it has made its way there.
and through my blood spreads its crushing static
it follows me. the decay.
i am never alone.
even when my door is locked and my window is bolted and there is nobody beside me.

i fear i am losing my mind, losing my grip.
i fear more so that i am not, and i am completely within myself,
and this is myself.
i cannot touch someone for too long,
in case i am catching
and i infect them with whatever is causing my skin to hang from my bones in ways that do not fit

but my lord i am so lonely, and i am so tired
though it seems all i do is sleep,
and i am begging for someone to hold me long enough to push my muscles back into a shape that looks human

i am afraid i will ruin everything i love because i do not know how to love it.
and i will be back where i have always been, alone at a party, with people at every inch around me saying nothing.

i knew, when the sky finally cleared, that the rain would come again.
but the sunlight was warm and easy,
so i did not seal my roof tiles.
and now the buckets on the kitchen floor are full
and the water has nowhere else to go.
i’ll be okay
sage Mar 1
years ago, when i would climb fully clothed into a dry bathtub to cry, i would think about atoms.
my own, specifically. though whether any of them are still mine, i do not know.
the atoms making my bones, my liver, my lungs, are older than stars.
what were they before me?
that's not the question that scared me. what scared me, scares me still, is if i am made of anyone else. and if they should despise what they had become.

but at the end of history, for it has finally come, it seems silly.
who cares what i am made of?
the world is full of death and fire and shoes with separate toes.
why waste the time to care about the history of my skin?
and while this voice who belongs to nobody makes an excellent point, and i am aware of my ridiculousness as it pours down my face, i cannot shake it.
our minds have not evolved to fit the whole world. i cannot visualise it.
the great, stomping, climate-change godzilla is transient. he phases through the walls of my brain like a ghost, chains scraping along the floor as he goes.
but he finds me, as he leaves me, alone with myself.

and that, i can never run from.

i can cut my hair off with fabric scissors in the middle of the night. i can fill my empty hours with meaningless, instant content i forget as soon as it ends. i can move houses, cities, entire continents. but in blasted spite of every effort, it's still me.
of course i preoccupy myself. it's the one thing from which i shall never escape.

there is no way to trace my body backwards through time. that i know.
i will be myself for the rest of my life. that i also know.
planet earth may not outlive me. makes a trinity of knowledge i have.

so where do i go? stuck inside a body who feels like a stranger, hurtling ever forwards on an increasingly broken world.
i would love someone to come to me, preferably accompanied with a cloud of smoke and ****** of crows, and give me the secret of a life that never feels like static.
but that's only because I'm waiting for a quest that won't come.

no, the solution is far less fantastical, far less the stuff of poetry.
i have to learn to like myself. to know them, trust them, to build a foundation stronger than anything i can break it with.
and though i have already started, i am nowhere near finished. maybe i never will be.
but that is a fear i am letting go of, finger by finger, releasing my grip on.
eventually the wind can sweep it away, and i can forget.
hehe idk
sage Dec 2020
several months ago, i wrote about love.
how i thought it would be fire, sunlight, a single candle in an empty room.
i built a girl to put all my love into so i had a way to let it out,
but i had never loved then, and now i have.

i love a girl with short hair and dark eyes who is allergic to all my favourite foods,
and she made me realise that loving was easier than i feared.
i love her without hesitation, without waiting, without restraint.
but when she loved me back i was afraid. i'm afraid now.

because what happens when - not if- she wakes up and sees me as i do?
she sees she was wrong, and i am not warm or kind or anything she thinks of me.
and a voice whispers above the fear that maybe she's right, and i am wrong.
if she does not see how awful i am, how awful could i really be?

she thinks i am good to her because i am good. but its not true.
i love her because of her, not myself.
i am good for her because i want her to be happy with me, and i want to deserve the esteem she holds me in.

and in the core of my heart i know i'm just scrambling for reasons to ruin things,
because i'm happy in a way i've never been before.
and i hold onto her like i am afraid she'll vanish once my brain stops screaming at me.
i wonder how she can look at me and not be repelled like i am.

but i don't think i would hate myself if i were somebody else.
if i was a stranger, what would i think?
the truth is, i don't think I'm a bad person.
i think i am loved and that terrifies me.
because what have i done to deserve it?
it cannot be enough.

i was used to dealing with myself at my worst,
to licking my wounds like a cat in silence
but now she is here and determined to stay
and i want her to.
so if she wants to see everything i will let her,
and the rest is her choice to make
i love my gf but not myself it seems
sage Aug 2020
the future is a recent concept to me.

i spend my entire life looking backwards, to worlds and people that left me behind long before i was born.
reaching into water i can't see the bottom of, down on my knees in the mud, just close enough to the edge to sweat.
i thought of futures sometimes, occasionally, sleek and chrome with wires peeking through each rusted corner.
but they were never futures i was a part of. always for a generation whose parents were yet to exist, a century i couldn't even count to.

i didn't imagine my own adulthood at all until a week before my 18th birthday.

when i was a child it never crossed my mind. i didn't realize yet that youth was a state that all except the tragic move beyond.

i pried a disposable razor apart with nail clippers when i was twelve, and pulled it through my skin.
once the anger drained itself dry i stared at the scratches, the edges, the angles between them,
as if i was investigating a cave painting, making guess after empty guess at meaning and motivation and reason.
until i remembered that skin would scar.

and suddenly every year of an average life hit at once, and i panicked.
it was long, unbearably long. minutes stretched into days and a decade sounded unending.
so i resigned myself to simply
                       ­                                         not make it.

and i told myself that, often, for years.
i would set a date, tidy my room, make sure i had all my arguments settled.
then i would cry, and fail, and come up with an excuse to postpone it a few months.

i tried twice, on the same day, four years apart.
i even tried to go to school the morning after each overdose, but i never made it past midday.
i ran off the morning bus the first time, puked and cried and stared at strangers who walked past thirteen year old me, unflinching, until i was done.
i was half dragged, half carried, half conscious to my classes, until i got sent home. but i said i was tired, and nobody asked questions.

when i was seventeen i made it to the alleyway by the school gate before vomiting, eyes watering from the force and the fear.
a man in a van bought me water and offered to drive me to hospital. i wondered what he was doing four years ago.
but the hospital told my parents, and gave me a counsellor, and a month into therapy she asked me why i had nearly thrown away an entire future.

i couldn't answer her. i cried, and we were silent, and she changed the topic.
what could i tell her? that the future always cut off a few vague months ahead whenever i tried to look at it? that i had never even expected myself to get this far? that my entire life has felt like borrowed time? no, then she would only ask more. and i just wanted to leave.

so i left, and somewhere along the way i stopped going back, stopped answering her calls, her letters, her voice asking my mother if i was still alive.
it was a week before my 18th birthday when i realised i would actually live to see it.

but i've made it through a whole year of university so far, despite never thinking i would leave school. it's been one year and four months of winging it now.
time still passes when you aren't looking,
and somehow i made it this far.

i've accepted the rest of my life, however long it is. i hope as much as i fear. i'm tired, mostly. i'm angry at myself for wasting so much time. but there's nothing i can do about that now, i just have to move forward.

i wonder sometimes, often, if i will ever get to a point where i will be okay forever. where i can take the sad little piece of myself that i carry each day out of my pocket, put her down, and walk away.
i don't think i will, but i'm trying to make my peace with that.
if u actually read the whole thing number one thank u and number two pls tell me so i can thank u
sage Aug 2020
it's too late to call you, but i stare at your number anyway.
with a picture that no longer looks like you staring back at the dark,
clouded by a fuzzy head and wet eyes.
as i desperately try to tell myself that it's okay to be strangers sometimes.

but i'm lying.

i can't live as a stranger to you. i don't know who that leaves me to be.

i want you to look me in the eye and see me down to my soul so i don't have to embarrass myself by telling you,
because i always sound pathetic out loud.
i want you to know me so i don't have to know myself
i want you to love me so i never have to look my reflection in the eye and feel my insides turn at the sight.

every time that i tap into the sadness it threatens to pour out of me at once.
and i cannot touch the wave that crashes inside my chest for fear that i will splinter,
and everything will fall until it is broken.
and i have nowhere left to hide.
and you will see me.

as i am, anything other than as i am.
i feel like i have been waiting for something for my entire life.
i have been waiting for an okay that will never last
for something to break
something to give
to fix


i will be okay.

in some hour of tomorrow who feels so impossibly far from now.
and i will be okay until i am not.
again and again until the cycle comes to me like water
the hardest part of getting better is realising that 'better' is a lie, and working towards it anyway.
but there are times when i want to be alive so much it makes my lungs ache.
so i will carry on for the me who lives in those moments, fleeting as they may feel.

it will pass.
i wrote this in one go while crying. it is not good, but it is a lot.
sage Jul 2020
i had always thought that love would feel like fire.
not in its rage or destruction,
but the heat, the light that flickers across her face
when it's all that i can see.

i would watch her smile as it slipped through the cracks.
she laughs like sunlight, even now
but i am hopeless and hollow and beyond all divinity,
i wished i was good enough to give her to someone better.

she looks at me like candlelight through glass
as if the fluorescents could never wash me out,
as if we lived somewhere that never existed,
like she would love me if i let her.

but there is no her.
she is the construction of a poet in despair.
she lives in my chest, hollowed out and filled with kerosene
and her fingers graze the matchstick in my hand

i think of her hair under moonlight
i think of her eyes closed in a midday heat that only dreams have
i think of rain, a rain that pours for weeks without relief
the match is lit and i swallow it whole.
i sure do write a lot of love poems for someone that has never been in love
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