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femininedeathPoems
So you tell yourself, don't write about your sadness; bottle it in like the forgotten pills in a medicine kit. Bury yourself underneath a bunch of blankets and hope that the land mines inside you stay hidden, just as your scars stay hidden beneath those bands. Instead, write the prettiest, emptiest, make-believe poems — nothing about the eclipse constantly obscuring the sun. Nothing about the random break downs that no longer wait for midnights and 3 ams. Nothing about the aimless walks and the piles of books you can't read because reading is exhausting and everything is exhausting. You tell yourself, don't write about it, otherwise, you'll be forced to trade places with all kinds of sadness you've secretly been hosting all this time, and they'll cut their way out through the fresh stitches on your chest. And you'll have to bleed all over again, and not just on your wrists, but on your eyes and on your legs and your thighs, down, down, dripping to these words. So again, you tell yourself, don't write about your sadness, darling — don't write about it. But then, how do you stop writing about sadness when you never run out of it to write about?
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Sep 13, 2019
Sep 13, 2019 at 12:30 AM UTC
sad girl chronicles pt. 2
So you tell yourself, don't write about your sadness; bottle it in like the forgotten pills in a medicine kit. Bury yourself underneath a bunch of blankets and hope that the land mines inside you stay hidden, just as your scars stay hidden beneath those bands. Instead, write the prettiest, emptiest, make-believe poems — nothing about the eclipse constantly obscuring the sun. Nothing about the random break downs that no longer wait for midnights and 3 ams. Nothing about the aimless walks and the piles of books you can't read because reading is exhausting and everything is exhausting. You tell yourself, don't write about it, otherwise, you'll be forced to trade places with all kinds of sadness you've secretly been hosting all this time, and they'll cut their way out through the fresh stitches on your chest. And you'll have to bleed all over again, and not just on your wrists, but on your eyes and on your legs and your thighs, down, down, dripping to these words. So again, you tell yourself, don't write about your sadness, darling — don't write about it. But then, how do you stop writing about sadness when you never run out of it to write about?
#sadness#depression#emptiness#anhedonia#avolition#melancholia#depressed#pain#hurting
femininedeath
Written by
femininedeath
27/F/Philippines
Sep 13, 2019
Sep 13, 2019 at 12:30 AM UTC
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