I've heard that drugs send you to early tombs
So I sit and get high on sharpie fumes
I burnt myself on purpose but hey
No ones going to see it anyway
The light has three modes and the sounds only one
I lay in my bed instead of having fun
Is this what you wanted?
(Now you got it)
For me to hide and forget
Be forgotten, body rotten, reliving regret.

I hear them sometimes
Whispering their lies

Do you hear them?
Behind those eyes
Whispering those lies

I surrender most times
To their lies behind my eyes
Surrender to their whispering lies

and i could hate the one who birthed me
and went through all that pain because i existed.
and she made me hate myself,
drew a line in my memory.

i've got nothing to remember,
only triggers that seem to last forever.

but she was and is my mother—
and despite all the pain and all the hurt she's given me,
i'll still take her stand when the world calls her wrong,
'cause i know what it feels like
to see your own going against you, before long.

and perhaps i'll carry these wounds,
of having to grow up with her
while helping her grow.

for i was a child,
and i still am—
but somewhere,
i became the mother
that i never had.

i think
this is perhaps the first time
i came and picked up my laptop,
sat in front of the blank screen,
with the pointer blinking back at me—
and i realized i had so much to write.

about how the world was being unfair,
of how i was being lied to,
of how i was all by myself all again—
and that's what they wanted:
to isolate me after attachment.

and i don't know,
it didn't hurt the way it used to.
i relapsed, kinda—
but i realized i'd healed much more.
and even though it's surprising,
i just don't know how to pen it down.

i was watching the recent season of ginny and georgia,
and i found quotes and expressions and scenes that i related to—
like *******, like poetry is supposed to be form of self-expressing.
but i never knew how to do it in the first place.

and i've gotten better, i know—
but i lie on my bed,
and something's just so poetic about lying in the dark
with posters on my walls,
with pictures telling me to not give up,
to write, to be creative—
and i do all these things just to stop thinking at all.

like, i have my hair open
and it's the second day since i washed them.
i'd changed the day schedule—
it seems kinda nice, like not a repetition for once.
and my mum's showering,
i'm in my room,
the air conditioning is on—
the heat outside is unbearable.

i received a text from a random person asking for my socials,
and i'm perhaps the first in this generation
to not use a social.

i bathed my bunny today,
she's kinda angry at the fact—
but i know she'll round that. she always does.
she just doesn't like water,
but she needs it.

like i don't like to live and be surrounded
by people who don't want me,
but i have to fake it.

that's kinda simple.
but it's hard to accept—
like the brutal kinda truths that seem to reflect my own insides
and i just have to let them.

and every time i look into the mirror,
i imagine who i can be.
but to be that person,
to be the me in the mirror—
it's just— i don't have a way yet laid out in front of me.

i've got no prompts today—
perhaps i'll ask for some, look around and always return
to write back in here.
but sometimes i wanna write just nothing at all.

like write it out,
but it's about nothing—
just things that are so normal
that they don't even seem to matter.

you won't see someone writing about breathing
until they know the lack of it during a panic attack.
you won't see someone writing about a heartbreak
unless they've been through that.

and they could write from the experiences of others—
but first, you have to experience.

and i don't know,
i'm perhaps getting somewhere—
but that isn't even necessary, at all?
right?
like, i can exist,
and i don't have to make a big point out of it— all times.

i can be breathing,
be listening,
be wanting something but not knowing what i want exactly.
and i could be just in the zone of comfort
without having any comfort at all.

but it's just— hard to define, to put in words.

i had no thoughts when i came here,
but right now i type,
and i watch myself type,
and i see the words coming to life
and i want to keep going on and on and on and on
until the cycle just never stops
and i can keep on speaking and speaking
and somehow get it all out—
all that i've felt, or all that i keep feeling.

and i could write my past down
but i don't have any memory unless it's triggered—
i'm just— like a total black space
with no stars either.

and i'm running out of metaphors
and i'm afraid that i won't have this writing skill of mine.
that's kinda one of the fears.

the second is to show people i truly hear—
and see, and watch as they go ahead
and do the things that will have me lost—
far, far away from them.

and i wonder if they even see then—
that i can be the one they need,
but to be someone that i need,
myself, with me—

i just read a quote that said
"life's easier if you have even just one good friend,"
and i have had— one of those, always and now and then—
but i kinda seem to always lose it all.

and that's alright,
because somehow, you find a way—
but i can't still go to these good friends of mine,
and talk to them—

another thought—
if you can't find a reason to be,
become the reason yourself.

just got a random thought that could be a big quote
and now i'm being gaslighted—
is this thought my own
or did my brain pick it up from somewhere
and threw it in the open for more?

poems don't always have to have an ending—
well, they do.
but that's what i tell myself
when i can't find an ending suitable enough
to fit in the already written words.

and then i realize,
the infamous line from the series i'm currently watching:

"listen or don't, i don't care—
that's life right?
things don't always have happy endings.
or even endings.
it's not fair like that.
we're just left hanging
and we don't know what's gonna happen.
we don't even know what really did happen.
so all we can do is decide to just not care."

"i think you do care.
when you wrote that poem, you wanted an ending.
you crave resolution.
you want things to make sense.
and sometimes they don't.
and that frustrated you,
so you frustrated us, the listeners.
you pushed us away.
oh and that's the name of the poem by the way,
'ending'."

Fully cooked batter,
Sprinkle of half-baked sighs.
A recipe of truth —
Never a lie.

Throw out the salt;
Add aged cheese,
A dollop of sugar,
A dash of chilies.

Don’t mention the sweat,
Nor the quiet cries.
Because
It’s the recipe of truth —
Never a lie.

Serve the truth,
Or leave it dry.
Maybe a pinch of water,
But never a lie.

I thought I'd never do it
That I was the only one in the universe like me
By I think I've finally found my tribe
And I think I've finally found my reason to keep going

I carry a storm,
In the pocket of my shirt.
A restless demon,
Clawing.
Ripping.
Shredding.
My body apart,
From the inside out.
Shattering bones,
Through every breath.
The taste of blood,
Of acid,
Is all I know.
Thunder in my mind,
And voices,
Is all that bombards,
My brain.
My hallucinations.
Develop,
I was told I'm faking,
But I'm not fine.
The demos echo,
They yell,
In that shrill voice,
I know all too well.
These echos send,
Alarms like a bell.
My heart is shattered glass,
Like a mirror,
Laying on the floor.
Cutting deeper,
With each bolt,
That sends waves into my body.
I wear this weight.
Like a second skin.
That’s underneath,
Hiding what’s within.
I struggle—I fight everyday.
What you don’t see,
Is what goes on,
Day to day.
The vomiting.
The pain.
The nausea.
The shame.
The anemia.
The dizziness.
The fighting for life,
It’s a lot of chores.
To stay alive— is a battle,
My body forces me to ride,
Like a roller coaster.
This fight in my pocket,
Is a storm brewing out of control
Who knows?
When my body,
Will hit a pole.
This storm,
Is making me lose myself,
More.

Every little rejection
Every "I can't"
"Maybe"
Feels like I opened my chest
Giving them access to my heart
And they took it out
Twisted it
And put it back in bleeding