1:02 pm.

I can’t.
I can’t do this.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t.
I keep hitting walls.
I keep throwing ****.
And smoking until I throw up.
I don’t know what to do.
Do I continue this episode of painfulness?
Or do I die?
Or do I just sit here and let it pass?

Routine. Make sure you have it. Whether it be taking a shower and brushing your teeth every morning, or it is smoking a cigarette and drinking a cup of coffee. I need you to have a routine sweetheart, it'll serve you when you're in high school.

2. Don't use violence. Treat others the way you want to be treated. The violence part? I know, easier said than done, but your dad had such a hard time in high school. He was suspended and almost got battery charges for hitting a girl. Also, your dad went to jail for abusing the effing crap out of your grandmother.  So trust me please, when I say violence is not the answer.

3. Read. Write. Create. Repeat. Read John Green, Neil Hilborn, and Savannah Brown. Write as though your soul is on fire and this is the only way to put it out. Write every day, write about pain, guilt, shame, suffering. Write about all the bad things, but also show those glimmers of hope. Create. Make art that shocks and makes people think. Make masterpieces. Make art you don't like. Whatever you do, just make art. Do it because your dad would. Do it for the world. You have so much potential.

4. Don't join Facebook. You will get preconditioned to the fact Facebook is a right of passage and a sense of freedom, but trust me, it isn't. It'll turn you from an artist to one who searches for love in all the wrong places. One who strives off likes, and hearts, and good reactions. It will make you feel worthless on those days you get zero shares from the status you thought was golden. I love you and you can do this.

5. This one is hard for me to say, especially considering I'm one of many whose done it, but don't attempt suicide. You'll regret it the moment it doesn't work and cry the moment you realize what you've done. I will let you know regardless if it works or not, the amount of pain you put others in: will not change. There will always be pain. I love you sweetheart and you can do this.

6. Listen to loads of music. This should be your drug of choice. I'll make you a playlist of all your padre's favorite songs. Music does wonders. Music soothes, helps you create, lets you let it out, and the list goes on and on.

7. Discover yourself; embrace that. Whether you be gay, straight, or bi. Whether you're happy, sad, or content. Whether you're ill or not ill. BE YOURSELF. Be so much yourself, you have the amount of confidence of a great white shark. Those *******, those animals are CONFIDENT. (19 year old me would also like to insert that werk it qween is a totally acceptable phrase)

8. You are made of magic. You have the bones of stars and the eyes of bravery. Anywhere you walk is going to be a place where everyone knows your presence. You walk on red carpets of kindness and love, but also you smile bigger than anyone in the room.

See her? Yeah, she's my daughter. She's my light, life, and reason to function on bad days. She brings me so much joy that the only way to describe it is, become an addict, go into foster care and lose everything you've ever known for ~1.5 years, and then uproot yourself into the adult life, 1 day after graduating. After you've completed those steps and only managed to need to be resuscitated twice, then you get to go onto the pile of adult ******* that entails: paying bills, overdosing on abused drugs, being forced to sign a 'mutual termination' contract with the place you were living because you had a mental health flare up. Are you still alive? Okay cool, well now you're going to move into sober living and fall in love with the wrong person while being there, get into drugs even more than you were before (ironic, eh,) and now... after all that. You move away from hell. And fall in love with the child you never thought you'd have.  

You bring me so much happiness, it's nearly ridiculous.

I have kaleidoscopes for a head
And bombs for lungs
I have a string for the bombs as a heart,
Pulled just right and god knows what’ll happen
I have a blu ray dvd player as feet,
“Clumsy and awkward human walking ahead,” says the sign
The sign is my skin, so everyone knows what they’re getting into
Some would call that baggage
My eyes are purple buttons, not from Coraline, but from the fact I love that color
My soul is the one unknown factor
My soul is the monster that keeps reaching for the string
My soul no one will know what it is made of

one. i graduate in (now) seven days, and i'm happy, scared, stoked and excited.
two. i am not the best writer
three. but it makes me happy and on somedays, it makes me feel alive
four. i'm genderqueer
five. i am a first gen. college student
six. self-harm didn't help. self-harm didn't help. self. harm. didn't. help.
seven. death is a scary, cravable thing
eight. i need to get my **** together
nine. free verse poetry is the best poetry
ten. my loyalty is earned, you don't get that immediately

just because i don't fit into your hands
doesn't mean
i don't fit into my own

Dylan McConnell
Born in Madison, Wisconsin
Born on November 23rd
Who is the brother of Eden and Zoe Nisam
Who is the grandson of Lynn and Tom McConnell
Who is the nephew of Beth, Dana, Quinn, and Cristin McConnell

Who loves hugs, humor, and puns
Who hates sharing a room, cable tv, and the color red
Who feels love towards all beings
Who enjoys cigarettes, ****, and company
Who likes art, creating, and writing
Who gives love to all, good hugs, and great conversations
Who desires to go to college, become a counselor, and write a book
Who plays a mad a game of rummy and solitaire
Who is unemployed
Who eats literally everything, including fast food
Who changes the way people view the world.

Who loves.

Anxiety sips from me
as though I’m it’s only bird feeder in the area
Depression eats away at me
as though I can only suffice for half of it's needs
And tonight? It’s hungry as it’s ever been.
Trauma kills me
As if it was an eagle looking for roadkill
Me being the roadkill
Drug abuse nailed me in the head waiting to **** me.
Waiting to **** me due to the fact I've been defeated.
So there they sit, all trying to defeat, the defeated me.

Bite me.

There comes a time in every person’s life when they need to make a choice.
A choice about love
A choice about life
A choice about which path to take
A choice.
It’s funny considering I’ve made probably all the wrong turns.
About love
About life
And even about which path to take.
I think I chose the wrong path.
But now?
Now I think I chose life.
I choose to love each person.
I choose to go on the “right” path.
I choose life.

You finally left our perfect family.
You packed your brown suitcase.
You said goodbye to our house of 5 years.
You drove that Cleatus down the road without looking back.
And where are you now?
With that girlfriend who lives in Minnesota.
You drove away all the way to Minnesota to go live with her.
You’re with her kids while you left your own one back here.
Why them and not me?

That’s a question I ask myself everyday.

Was it my quiet self?
Or my avoidance of the hard stuff?
Could it have been I said I love you too often?
Or was it the fact I loved you with all my heart?

To this day I still don’t know why you left, but I have a guess.

It was for the girlfriend.
The family you’ve always wanted.
The one you didn’t get with me.
It was the fact you had an excuse to run away.

Well thank you for running away, I found myself.

My love for poetry
For books, for art.
I found my feelings, and I found my heart.
I found out I’m male, and found out I love my family.
I found out more than I’ll ever admit to you.

To this day, you still live there.

In Minnesota, in hell.
With my two “siblings”
Siblings enough where we can fight
But not enough where we can call each other a family.

Well dad I have a question.
What is a family?
Is it blood to you?
Or is it living under the same roof?

To this day I will never know.

Good-bye dad.
Goodbye house.
Good-bye farm.
Good-bye siblings.

Dear dad, I love you
I love the love in your laugh
Your awesome autograph
Your perfect paraph
That chafed calf

Dear dad, I hate you
Your tactless tone
I should’ve known
That you would’ve thrown the stone
You’re like a clone
A drone
A stone

Dear dad, you’re complex
Blaming adolescent audrey
Going on a shrieking spree
Then to give me a blackberry
You’re like a broken birdie
A galaxy
My own personal genie

Dear dad, you left me
You left your baby girl
I’m not that baby girl
I’m a boy, one who has curls
Who sings in swirls

Dear dad, why her?
Why your eruptive ex?
She signs your corrosive checks
You’re just as complex

Dear dad, goodbye
I no longer believe in the high
We will never unify
You’re sly
Shy
A bad guy

Depression

This is the sound of depression.
The sound of your mother yelling at you to clean your room up for the tenth time this week.
The sound of a blade engraved in your skin.
Your pencil scribbling down your intense thoughts.
The sound of the monster screaming you're not good enough.

This is the feeling of depression.
The sinking feeling of pain in your stomach.
The monster tickling the bottom of your spine so you get chills.
The feeling someone just broke up with you, but instead of getting this feeling once, you get this feeling once an hour.
You're father calling you a worthless **** and how you react to it.

This is the taste of depression.
The taste of blood.
The taste of ***** in your mouth because you can't keep your food down.
The taste of regret, the taste of sadness, the taste of hurt.
This is the taste of sadness.
The flavor of pain.
This is the taste of discomfort.

This is the smell of depression.
The smell of a dead body wafting through the vents.
*****.
Your dead body ******* itself.
This.
This is the reeking smell of depression.

This is the look of depression.
You not showering for your third week straight.
Engraved poetry in your wrist.
You almost hitting someone and everyone staring at you as you slowly lose your ****.
You losing 20 pounds in 1 week.
Not by purpose but not really by accident.
it just... wasn't the top of the depression priority list


this is depression.

Took my eager will to listen to music. I'd listen to all types of music. I'd listen to Pierce the Veil and Vampire Weekend. I'd listen to folk punk and indie rock. I listened to rap and alternative. I miss the days when I could listen to music, now it just feels like shouting in my ear.

Took my sense of life. Now? I don't know what the date is half the time, nor do I know what time it is. I can barely make it through a day of school.

Took my excitement to be risky. I used to smoke **** nearly every day, do Adderall, smoke a pack a day. I'd do risky **** and end up in places I don't know how I got there. Man, I miss those days.

Even took my sleep from me. Now? I don't sleep past 5 hours a night. I hide in my room hoping someone will allow me to come out.

Depression took my frown, instead, it was replaced with a fake smile.

Depression eradicated any routine I've ever had. I used to shower and brush my teeth every day. Ever since depression came along, my routine has died. (metaphorically.)

Depression took away so much from me. And I don't think I can ever picture a life where I get it back.

You’re the first thing I think of when I wake up
And when I go to bed
Yet, If that wasn’t enough, even in the middle of the day I think of you.
You’re my soul reason for living.
And you never let me down.
You give a sense of purpose.
And make me laugh as if I was 3 years old again.
I think I love you...
At least that’s what I’d call this obsession...
You’re probably wondering why I’m writing this to you.
Well... I recently learned we can’t be together anymore.
She doesn’t want us seen together.
Apparently we’re a bad influence on each other.
I’m going to miss you.
At least that’s what I call this level of dedication

i'm breathing
in and out
out and in
in and out
I'm breathing to resuscitate my lungs
i just came from a date with a panic attack
we freaked out together and
flashed back to good ol'
narcan time.
breathing is hard.
but this is a new time
a new start
to see how long i can go

Liar, Liar (Pants on fire)
Escapril day 24
Liar.
You said you did nothing wrong.
Liar.
You said you didn’t deserve it.
Pants.
You said I deserved every form of punishment I got.
On.
You screamed at me, egging me on.
Fire.
Now I’m on fire and borderline expelled.

I'm scared.
Scared of the demons in my head,
and monsters under my bed.
Scared of the dead,
and scared of what I said.

I'm fearful.
Fearful of hugs,
and of what's in the jug.
I'm fearful of bugs,
and also those pugs.

I'm petrified.
Petrified of getting space.
and of too much space.
Petrified of a phone case,
and even an embrace.

I'm scared.

Your love is like a rose and a dandelion.

Like a rose because it's thick to get to.
It's hard to find the soft, pretty, beautiful, spots of you.
Because there's thorns in the way.
It's like a rose, because you are beautiful and red.

but it's also like a dandelion.
****-y and unhealthy.
dangerous and probably will result in disfigurement, but baby bring it on.

I say this because your love is toxic.
because you didn't love despite all the effort I put in.

Love is complex..
Love is kind.
Love is simple.
Love is hard.
Love is one-sided.
Love can be two-sided.
Love can help you.
Love can hurt you.
Love can make you cry.
Love can help you mend the unfixed wounds.

Love exists. But I’m not quite sure if it’s for me.

I called my mom today because I thought she stops panic.
I couldn’t have been more wrong.
I think my mom’s the one who started the panic. She started the panic by having me three months early.
She started the panic by not believing my cousin ****** me happened.
She started the panic by putting my in the foster care system.
She started the panic by killing all the solar systems in you.
She started the panic by murdering the a e s t h e t i c.
She started the panic in all the one million ways you can think of.

A few rules brought to you by society
Back hunched
Crying? Never.
Death cannot affect you
Enlist in the army
Fight everyone
Grow ****** hair
Hugs? Once again, never do them.
I’m just trying to help you find your way
Joke around in class
Knives are for fighting
Leave a mess everywhere
Music? Overrated
Never ask for help
Open doors for others
Please, thank you, ma’am, sir
Quiet, you must abide by these rules
Remember to ask the parents first
Sit in class, always confused
Talk with your mouth full
Understand your place in society
Very nicely, take her on dates
Wilt in sadness but never show it
Xerotic Eyes
Yes, I’m being honest even
Zebras abide by these rules

i think i need to realize something
i'm sad
i'm hurting
things are getting harder
AND
i'm coping
i'm living
i'm alive

that
is
okay

Good morning boy.
Good morning coffee, with the reminiscence of your lips kissing me
Good morning cab, that takes me to you
Good morning you.
Good morning walking you to class and holding you close!
Good morning Snapchat, waking me up for texts from you

Good afternoon lunch, where you and your friends play uno
Good afternoon sadness, because I have to wait 2 1/2 hours to see you
Good afternoon the two hours that's passed, so I can hold you close
Good afternoon closeness.

Good night bed, that craves your existence
Good night dog, that I wished we shared together
Good night Snapchat, as the texts disappear overnight
Good night you.

Until Tomorrow.

she enthralled me with her orange hazy glow
that golden yellow singing chorus
made me think last night if I actually saw a rainbow
oh how unfair the broken are.

she broke last night asking me,
"why can't I cry like you?"
I replied, "because you have more breakthroughs
it makes you stronger. I'm just weak."

well, now I'm getting a look into her life
but I don't want to.
get me away.
this hits too close.

“You Look So Happy”
happy you say?
you don’t see the cut
i use to pay
the smile that i shut
you don’t see my pain
when i hide away
i choose to abstain
yet i cry anyway
you don’t see the drunken smile
but that, i cannot hide that i am upsot
is this worth your while?
“What?”
what you murmured
you don’t understand it
understand my cravings
cravings for pain
pain that’s too deep
you don’t understand my tears
tears over her
her who broke me
me, the once whole human
you don’t understand my heart
my heart that’s broken
broken, shattered, not pumping
pumping the blood i need to live
“Oh”
you understand
ugly understanding now i’m gone
absent abuse now i’m a ghost
vanished violation now i disappeared
all gone, now that i’m gone

hi, i'm dylan,
i'm trans, in love, and listening to music
i'm also v.v happy bc i'm in love.

so this boy, he's a cute boy,
who gives good hugs and has
a really dorky and cute smile
his hair is curly and kinda messy
but y'anno what? i like him a lot

he's smart, kind, and again,
gives ******* amazing hugs
also, he's not a druggie, so
i can add him to my list of good people.
so yeah!

I am from a crystalline chandelier
From kit-kats and crayola
I am from the dusty cobwebs in the corners of our house
sad, sweet, smooth
I am from Topaz
an aluminum and fluorine mixture.
I'm from thanksgiving and hope.
From Kerra and Beth
I am from the nervous laughter and card games
From gum rotting in your stomach and shoes changing feet.
I'm from the lack of religion, no Christianity or Buddhism in this house.
I'm from Madison, WI
Oyster Stew, and sauteed zucchini
From the horrendous stories told about my dad. Making him look like the bad guy and vice versa.
The threats of being kicked out, not realizing I'd actually get kicked out.
Under my room, lays the closet. The closet has everything our family represents. From pictures to mementos to journal entries.
I am from these yellowed pictures, pages, and cards.
Rough and smooth somehow.

I am suicidal.
I am angry.
I am experiencing shame.
I am sad.
I am resenting every horrible thing I have ever done.
Lastly, I am manic.


I am sad I hit him.
I am shaming myself because I shouldn’t have done what I did.
I am suicidal because I’ve finally had time to process/realize what I did.
I am angry at him for egging me on.
I am resenting him for blowing me off.
I am having an adverse reaction to a med and experiencing a manic episode.

What do I do?
Who do I ask for help?
Do I go inpatient?
Do I fight this on my own?
What.
Do.
I.
Do.

queer.
one who shakes and quivers
with the slightest mention of death
one who has attempted suicide
over ten times
four over drugs
one who adores fuzzy animals (including bunnies)
i write haiku's
i write long poems
i even write stories
my cat and graduation and the joyous things in my life
my room brings back 1,000,000,000 truamatic memories
but
my moms my rock


eighteen is such an overrated age :(

I am from keurig brewers and phones
from grits and Bluetooth headphones
I am from the white walls,
incense, and
I am from the lilacs outdoors
The neighbors plants

I am from "Wash your hands" and "Go Cavaliers!!"
I am from No Scrubs by TLC and shouting at TV due to basketball
I'm from family cookouts and foster care
I'm from Madison, WI and short prayers around the table
From my mom going to riots,
Thick hair,
and white walls.
I am from a cozy home on the north side of Madison,
and a good hug when needed.

I'm from hard times.
I'm from hard fought battles and long talks about
why **** is bad.
I'm from dumb arguments and loud cheers from the audience.
I'm from so much, and so little.

Love,
me.

really understand
-
what my brain is feeling
or thinking
even emitting
-
i can't really accept
what is actually happening
-
it's like i watch myself have
the consequences
but
i never actually can 'feel' them
-
drugs can **** up a lot
in a short amount of time
and that **** ain't cool
it's a fine and narrow line
-
one moment
you have control on everything
and the next
you get that one hit
or the higher quality
or even your grandma sends some cash
and you get more than you've ever had
and
nothing is ever the same
-
no more thinking
no more feeling
no more theories
no more genuineness
no more identity
-
more dissociation
more depression
more starving
more deadly activities
more ******* around
-
if i became homeless
i'd end up saying bet
if someone shot me tomorrow
i'd die somewhat happy
but nowhere near content
if i lost my mom tomorrow
i'd smoke 4 blunts
and if i killed myself tonight
i'd die proud
-
somehow my life went from
****** grades
trauma and abuse
with a side of physical aggression
and suicide attempt after suicide attempt

to

near death expereinces
fentanyl spiked drugs
coming to appointments high
but don't forget the time i ****** someone to get high
and lastly, trying to die because i cannot find the
means to forget about
all the unimaginable and traumatic
decisions and moments
i've ever wanted to forget
-
please don't let me leave this alive?

i have an idea.
it's called: growing.
i think i used to write only when i was sick
and then i started getting better and worried i was
getting too good to create
i went through a long grieving process with
my depressed art
i thought i would never pick up a pen again
i thought i would stay sober and flare up free for a while
well, looks like i'm wrong about a lot of things
i started testosterone since i got better
i have a doctor appointment next week in which i will ask about
top surgery, upping my dose, and moving forward
with a name change
i've grown, *******, but i've fallen too.
i've grown so much i lost my roots
but i've grown so much i learned to plant new ones
i learned that sobriety doesn't end when you're ill
it actually begins at that moment you know you are so
much
better
than
that.
and wow kid, you had a birthday.
and you had a good thanksgiving
and you picked up a pen and drew.
and here you are writing ******* word after word afterword.
you're doing it.
and you're going to continue to do it.
i love you.

i got really high this morning
and it feels like I cheated on recovery
it feels like I ripped my sobriety from my cold dead high hands
I'm listening to lil peep again
and I feel like I'm actually going bad again
I didn't care for my broken tender wounds yesterday
and I broke down into a beautiful pile of sadness
and there i layed
for a miserable, deadly, slow 5 hours until i
fell into a deep sleep
and i woke up this morning and cheated on recovery

I dreamt about so many things.
I dreamt about my monsters fleeing.
And my **** never happening.
I dreamt you never hit me and never gave me a concussion.
I had this wonderful dream you never left me.

I fear my father’s hands, due to the fact
You don’t know which day
He’ll give a handshake
And which day he’ll try to strangle you
I fear my mother’s hugs due to shame
I don’t know which day it’s just a hug
And which day it’s a grasp of all that’s left in the world
I fear my cat
Knowing one day she’ll die and one day I’ll say goodbye to the
Only friend who kept me company in teenager-hood world
I fear coffee
For it’s too comfortable
Too much like home
Whispers to me, just another sip
God knows what I would do if I overdosed with coffee in hand
I fear men, funny, because I am one
I fear them because they have landed me in places I don’t want to be in
They have abused, assaulted, and hurt me in ways only god can imagine
I am deathly afraid of separation
I am petrified of marijuana
As it ***** me up more than any other drug
Lastly, I am afraid of myself, emo right?
But I am truly scared of what I am capable of.
What I can do.
What I can’t do.
Etc.

If the streets could talk they’d tell me to come back to them, that I need them, I’m truthfully not “better off without” them.

If I could respond to the streets I’d say I don’t need you. This is my battle and I’m at rock bottom. I can only go up, and as I go up… I will no longer see you because I’m twelve hundred percent sure that I am better off without you. I don’t need to be high to fulfill the darkest parts of my soul. I don’t need to be high to be happy, content, or musically talented. It isn’t aesthetic. It’s not aesthetic. It. Is. Not. Aesthetic.

If the streets could talk they’d say ******* for becoming sober. That’s the worst choice you could’ve made in years. That decision is worse than trying to **** yourself. See the streets would rather see you dead from addiction, as opposed to becoming sober.

Well, ******* for making me want to become sober. ******* for making me want to die. And honestly, ***** you for everything you’ve torn from me. From sending me to jail as a tiny seventeen-year-old to making me off myself a good 4 times just ‘cause I couldn’t find drugs.

The streets would even go as far as to say: “rip everyone off, do bunches of drugs, leave everyone dry around you, and call it a day. Then sleep the high off, and next time you have an appointment, come to it high. #YOLO”

Y’anno what? YOLO is one ******* phrase. I live once, you’re right, Mr.Streets. But I want to be sober the majority of this living. I’m 18 and a half and have so much further to go in life. I want to become an addictions art therapist and I want to be at Zoe and Eden’s weddings. I want so much in life. None of which concerns the streets.

“Don’t listen to that cliche music, says the streets. Y’anno? That Macklemore **** that’s all about becoming clean? Eminem? Nah. None of that. You listen to music that glorifies drugs.” says the streets.

Also, if it takes listening to “Starting Over” by Macklemore 20 times a day and Dave’s Song by Whitney another 30 times a day, I’ll do it. Because at least I’ll be sober. Singing is something that brings me utter joy. As is writing and painting. And in order to do my best. I need to be pretty **** sober.

“No cigarettes do not count as addiction. Want to know what does? Buying pills with your disability checks. Now that ****’s ******* great. ******* for trying to get clean.” the streets say.

Bro. I’m bro-ing to you because we’ve reached that point of nonsense. You don’t get it, do you? I need to not spend my minimal money on drugs. Yes, cigarettes are a drug. I’ll get there with quitting those too. Instead of drugging myself up, I need to dye my hair, watch slam poetry, and sing. Sing. sing. Sing. Sing until my heart is full and complete.

Imagine that I'm happy.
That I am safe.
That I'm listening to music every day 'till I'm 18.
That I have a cat to hug when I'm sad.
Imagine that I'm at a safe, happy, home.
That the home has heat.
It has people I can call mom and dad.
It has a room I can decorate for my own.
Imagine that I have resources for myself that better prepare for the world.
Transitional Living Program.
Anger management counseling.
And most importantly, A home!!
Imagine I feel alive.
That I go on road trips
That I have deep conversations and really think.
That I live for me.
Imagine.

I survive off caffeine of sorts.
I survive off Bon Iver and Elliott Smith.
I survive off minimal money and ****** gas station jobs.
Lastly, I survive off of tiny computers and loads of paper.

I hope for a better day.
I hope for a home.
I hope for a family to call my own.
And I hope for a nice house and job in my future.

I live for poetry slams and trauma.
I also live for suicide awareness and ****** assault centers.
I live for helping the community and
getting my **** together.

I hate dogs and I hate people who **** people.
I hate people who eat tomatoes like apples.
I hate the fact I have enough trauma to last 3 lifetimes, but somedays, I really like I get to speak about my experience.
And somedays, I just hate life.

But today?
Today I survive off a 24oz cup of coffee.
I hope for a family.
I live for the knowledge that a better day will come.
And I hate my mother.

By your touch.
The touch of soft, velvety fingers.
The touch of silky smooth sheets.
The touch of your heartbeat against mine.

By your voice.
The voice of comfort.
The voice of soothing words.
The voice of love. (see poem "To Love")

By your smell.
The smell of perfume.
The smell of sharpies.
The smell of cigarettes.

But I'm not only intoxicated by you. I'm intoxicated by so many other things.

But I'll leave that for another day.

Which has lead me to crush on a LOT of adults. Because they do the following:

Having a good conversation that doesn’t end up in some fight. So it can be having this really hard conversation about death and he won't jump to conclusions. He won't assume I'm suicidal. And he sure as **** won't assume I need to go to the hospital. I love him for that.
Telling me when I’m acting like a *******. Like last night. "Just because something happened between us doesn't mean you get to isolate in your room." Thank you for helping me get my head out of my ***. I love you for that.
Sharing a cigarette. I love you for sharing addiction with me. You know addiction, you get addiction, you are an addiction. Man. I love you for it.
Buying me coffee. Meaning, you bring me in a good bag of coffee that actually doesn't need creamer to taste good. I love you for actually having taste.
Giving me compliments or calling me beautiful, even when I don’t have a bra on and look like I well, just woke up. I love you for speaking Spanish to me, because no one is that ****, but you are.
Telling me the truth. Like, “hey Dylan, you’re being stupid. Don’t kiss him.”
Sharing interests. Whether it be poetry, or movies. Cats, or jeeps. Even kinds of cigarettes, or coffee drinks.
Telling stories about our past. It can be “hey I used to drink a lot...” or it can be “I was abused as a child”
OR it can be “I was put in the foster care system.”
All of it makes me fall irrevocably in love with you.
Because you somehow become relatable with that experience.
And, at the end of this day, friendship confuses me.
I don’t know where the line is between friends and soulmates.
I just don’t know.

i'm not sound
i'm not stable
i still feel irrational and anxiet-ied nearly 99% of the time
it doesn't help i've had a seizure and have an MRI scheduled
with IV sedation which includes fentanyl
which i am a recovering addict
so this ****'s ******* S c a r Y
i feel sick to my stomach thinking of it
and it's not for another 23 days
but
i also have an EEG scheduled
and that's scary too
because
anxiety
and
mental health

and so i will sit here
and type out my feelings
while somehow being vaguely manic

breathe dylan
i need you to breathe

dude
you're being stupid
shut the **** up you little *****
you're being irrational
nobody likes an irrational person

therefore
nobody likes you
and you will die alone
everything in your life leading you to this moment is utter ******* and make no sense
so just go do something else
and stop being stupid

but
but but

i found someone who actually
like
likes me for me
and respects me and my brain before my body
and it's beautifully strange but somehow familiarly heartwrenching

i don't like it
i don't like feeling this way

and my brain
working this way

so i will continue to write
until my music or brain thoughts stop
which is a hard question to see which will end first

**** is this really my future?

what to say
what to do
-
i've always viewed poetry as
something to write when sad
or something to do when debating death
maybe even thoughts that are always in my head
-
i never saw it as
something i could do happy
something i can think about when alive
a beautiful passion
-
i want to art
i want to make beautiful words
i want to live my life in the works of art i create
i'm just not quite sure how to do that
-
maybe i let my mental health symptoms act up
maybe i listen to super sad music from the 90's
maybe even go back to drugs and drinking
what about just no television, friends, or work...
like how it was in foster care?

Is where I see truth, honesty, and art
Is not where I believe to be alive for ages
Is where my dreams come to life, and my heart no longer suffer
Is not where overdoses can occur
Is where I can be the closest to death without dying
Is the closest to a functioning real-life adult I can be
With still being the "dysfunctional adult" I am
Is safety and comfort, with fuzzy blankets
and aesthetic lighting
Is why I stay in the dark and hide
Is where cerulean comes to life on the ceiling
Isn't a place to get better, recover, or become soft and gentle
Is where I dream for a kinder, gentler day
that can cuddle my flaws and smooch away
the shame and guilt

I've survived 9 suicide attempts.
Been in the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit (PICU) twice
And
Lived to tell the tale.

I've been molested and *****.
Been able to tell my story in multiple ways.
And
Lived to tell the tale.

I'm not a survivor.
No.
I'm a liver.
I've done my surviving phase. That was miserable.
Now?
Now I live.