Days spent inpatient
Couldn't save me from me
Years spent in treatment
Failing to set me free
Dozens of medications
Just to be told it's BPD
Hundreds of coping mechanisms
Yet you still won't believe
I've worn myself out trying
To fight for a release.

I hate loud noises.
I really appreciate when it’s quiet.

Ever since the asylum,
I can’t stand loud noises,
especially if they’re sudden.

Gets me scared,
sad,
and then mad.

When it’s quiet,
I can think clearly.
I can do things better.
I can be more relaxed.

It’s ironic.
I feel like most people would say
I’m a loud person,
and I’ll give them that.
I can be loud sometimes,
when I’m excited.

But I still love the quiet.
I like being able to think.
When it’s too loud,
I feel like I’m losing it.

I’ve been listening to some quieter music.
Mitski is really good.

They say I have a rock voice,
but I’d rather whisper-sing instead.
Maybe that’s what I’ll do.

I love the quiet.
It’s never the perfect amount, though.

But are we the rabbit
Or are we the magician?

Oh, no, my dear
You've misunderstood.
We're the hat!
And there's so many more wonders within!

Beneath Judas tree,
the weight of suicide bends,
a sorrowful arch.

From bloodied wounds sprout
black wings of despair's descent,
shadowed by their sin.

Fingers trace her face,
water whispers soft goodbyes,
grief flows like the stream.

The words build up inside like a tumor,
Ignorance will make them mean—
Spare my heart / spare my lungs
The song 'What If' is on repeat.
Regrets of the past / fears of the future / anxiety of the present
A tumor never leaves—
Healing is temporary.
Coughing up blood / letters interlaced in red
It’s a disease to keep it inside,
It’s a curse to let them fly—
I must write outside of my skin.