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May 2019
I am surviving only
Through midnight dishwashing
Submerging my amygdala in soapy water
Trying to scrub it clean
Listening to los campesinos! so I don’t have to hear the water rush
Or taste the bubbles on my tongue-
My life only makes sense with a soundtrack.
But in all my favourite albums
There’s a skip on the record
I must have dropped a stitch somewhere in the fabric of my self-determination
In the dam that would have stopped this flood of bitter glitter tears
Maybe there’s something missing in the lining of my soul
Because I’m happy.
I’m the happiest I’ve ever been.
And yet there’s still the catch in my throat
The lingering sense of not seeming like myself
I’m shadowboxing my demons that are smaller than the mountains I’ve conquered
And yet
How do you **** a thing unseen?
A thing that creeps on the edges of my vision
In every blind spot
I don’t know what I’m fighting so I don’t know how to fix it.

I am surviving only
Through midnight dishwashing
And one way phone-call wishes to a god of self delusion
And doubt
Self-sabotaging from the inside out
Relying on chip shop philosophy to get from one minute to the next
And yet I don’t remember what you told me.

It occurs to me
That maybe my demons are dead
And perhaps I am fighting
Myself.
The parts that don’t live up to the lies I tell to sell my soul to every passing stranger.

You see, I know
That there’s nothing to cry about;
Or that there’s everything to cry about
But it’s not the stuff I’d write poems about
War and famine and plague oh disease
This festering something that’s inside of me.

Cut out a pound of rotting flesh to pay my debt to art
Cut out every dead piece of me, cut out my failing heart.
Recently I've been having spells of feeling slightly out of sync with the rhythm of my life- never for very long, never for more than a few hours at a time, but they're there nonetheless. I've been trying to find the source of this feeling of disconnect but I'm coming up empty- I don't have anything to be sad about, at least as far as I can tell. The title comes from the fact that I always say I have no issues then my friends always say that I do, I'm just good at putting on a brave face. I couldn't begin to explain what feels wrong about my brain, but there is just that distinct sense of melancholia that creeps up on me every so often. I wrote this to try and write my way out, and I think it worked, for now.
Eleanor Webster
Written by
Eleanor Webster  20/F
(20/F)   
343
     Fawn and Bogdan Dragos
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