accusations fly like throwing knives
and all the while, this war you wage
originates in your brain...
"if I had no one to scream at,
I'd scream at myself"
the words leave your lips
like smoke pours from windows
in a house, full blaze.
I've spent my whole life fighting,
so all this smoke doesn't scare me away.
it simply leaves me wondering
whether I can conquer this
or end up just another casualty
along the way.
I hope to a god I don't even believe in that I can fight this fire and win.
if we believe
we can achieve...
the lowest depths of insanity:
the very height of the losing streak
gambling is a dangerous game
not because of the money,
but the repetition of negativity
that can actually hold the brain captive.
it clanks a mug against the metaphorical
prison bars of the psyche.
so stuck in the chase that you present
the inability to hold out for even mere minutes
because there's "hands to be dealt" and
"stakes to be raised."
the recklessness you allow yourself to continue
until you're at your wits end
wondering why you haven't stopped yet,
or perhaps, why you even started to begin with?
it's not a game of skill or wit,
it's rigged to make the player feel superior
but only until they've got
Heat bears down on
seemingly sponge like pavement
and sings of scorching summer sun.
It is times like these
I am usually in my prime.
Usually so excited to go out
and live my best life.
But lately, there is only
an overabundance of scared:
of everything and nothing, all at once.
Maybe we haven't gotten
the medications quite right,
or maybe I haven't
perfected my grounding mantra
but I don't quite see an end in sight.
The voices are deafening
it's starting to keep me up at night.
It's funny, because
in my youth, I had an infatuation
with swingsets, but yet
this back and forth of
upward swings and downward spirals
is getting tiresome:
it feels like I'm losing the fight.
A wave breaks on the shore
and it paints a grotesque scene
of every little earth shattering thing
that you did to me without warning.
Rip through me like wrapping paper
on Christmas Day, while momma smiles
because she knows she did right by
that list you wrote for a fake being.
All it is, is words.
Jotted down quick so you wouldn't
forget them like you forgot me.
An 'I love you' splattered across
phone screens only to mean nothing
when you're miles away.
I wasn't, and couldn't ever be
what you need.
You needed the golden state,
all west coast, and gold teeth.
I was an east coast breeze.
A girl who would've given her last breath
if it meant seeing you smile with teeth,
but you ripped them out one by one,
each one another cut heartstring.
A girl who would have jumped
just as high as your love would allow,
but you couldn't give it to me.
Only marionettes and puppets strings,
dance for me, you said, while I lie through
these broken teeth.
This is a wreck
like being struck
by lighting from behind.
Or a car that decided
to ignore the stop sign.
I went through the windshield.
Wrong place, wrong time.
And now here,
I remain. Broken
before I even knew
what hit me..
I could have seen it coming,
but sometimes, we choose to be blind.
I've been gnawing off my nails
faster than I learned to chew as a child..
I don't bleed as heavily as I used to,
thick callus has replaced the skin
that's been opened time and time again
after each lashing of your tongue
I was stronger than before.
I choke on the word victim
like strong alcohol spit it up in the bathroom sink
and set aflame like a molotov cocktail; it feels like war in my chest.
I picture her as something unknown to most;
something you run from in nightmares.
In the open, she was nothing to fear,
harmless in front of the eyes of another:
behind closed doors she was a titlewave and
I was always facing the wrong direction..
not a surprise, but I was never expecting.
This isn't finished.. but I can't bear to write it anymore today
I itch, but only metaphorically.
It's not a physical sensation, merely a tick,
like clock hands make but more deafening.
I feel it in my skin, like bugs crawling,
creating passage ways to safe places
that I didn't know existed,
and I've still yet to actually find them
It just isn't easy to explain anxiety to
someone whose never had it.
It's like trying to teach a penguin to fly
with an anvil strapped to its chest.
Originally it was impossible,
but when you have anxiety,
you find ways to make it even more so.