i had a friend once,
and she taught me
not to say "i love you too,"
because it sounds false and inauthentic,
and little white lies are worse than the cold, hard
truth.

i had a friend once,
and she taught me
that you don't have to do anything;
it's simply a matter of whether you should
or shouldn't.

i had a friend once,
and she lived in a small, boring town
with small boring people.

i had a friend once,
and she was not a small, boring person.

i had a friend once,
and she hated herself,
every last inch of her,
but she still always knew
how to make me smile.

i had a friend once,
and she would always reference books
or music
or movies,
because to her,
the real world just wasn't as appealing.

i had a friend once,
and i left her.

she stayed.

she waited.

i'm sure her hope wavered at times,
but she waited still.

and i came back,
only to leave again.

she didn't stick around this time, though.

so, you see,
i had a friend once,
and she taught me
to think deeply,
to live freely,
and to love truly.

i had a friend once.

she's gone now.

(a.m.)

i write more than i should
maybe i should talk more
so that i am not as misunderstood.

(a.d)

i want to be part of a world
that feels alive every once in a while.
not like the city that never sleeps.
that's half dead most of the time.
i want to be part of a world
that recognizes life
that breathes
and
comes alive.

(a.d)

Make way for the depressed teen
they're all like that nowadays
someone probably just broke her heart
she'll learn to deal.
No big deal.
I mean as long as she doesn't steal

She's just a teen
she'll get over it real quick
Probably come home late
trying to take a break

she's not trying.

Did you see the cuts on her arms?
It's probably a new thing now
it shouldn't cause no harm.
It's just an arm.  

Oh she's just depressed
Like the walking dead, but just better dressed.
She'll get over it real quick,
I mean it's not serious or anything.  She's just depressed.

(a.d)

Dear Talia,

I don't want to be a tortured artist.
I don't want to be depressed and I don't want to be anxious.
Competitive sadness and disorders treated like accessories disgust me.

The world glamorizes mental illness, and I don't understand why. There is nothing romantic about being mentally ill just like how there's nothing glamorous about a broken wrist or a torn medial collateral ligament. There's nothing romantic about constantly being afraid that the world will fold in itself and **** you with it. There's nothing romantic about feeling like you could break down and cry at any moment.

This is the first piece I've written while being medicated.

I want it to be Christmas already.

The world dreams itself a halo, but can only attain horns. The halo is an illusion and the horns are an idea.

I'm due to take another Lorazepam. Would I look cool to the kids who idolize dysfunction and misinterpret pain as style, if I were to take one of these, with water and a distant glance, in front of them? Geez, to have their approval would to have everything and nothing at all.

I'm not sure why I've written as much about this as I have.

You.

It is 2:48 am and all I can think about, in this moment, is you.

I can't wait to spend Christmas with you. I can't wait to wear bad Christmas sweaters, and be the couple everyone hates, as we sing Christmas carols and spread holiday cheer.

I wrote this poem a few minutes ago. Sometime around 2:30 am. I'm not sure. I'm exhausted:

I sat on the edge of my bed, and on the edge of my life,
medicated to the point of pointlessness. Soft.
It was the nineteenth, not the twentieth,
and I wished I saw the fireworks with her fifteen days earlier.

My gasps tore the shingles off of the house.
And they hung suspended above the hole in the roof.
And God stared down into my room, as the shingles swirled skyward.
"I see you," I said, "but I don't believe in you."

I left home and ran until I was a dream that had passed itself.


I hope that was okay.

I love you.


Yours,

Joshua Haines