the very first thought i have each morning when i wake up is "i'd rather be dead"
but i am still so very glad i did not **** myself at the age of fifteen.
in five years, i have known. i have known triviality
heartbreak
physical scars that shine white and straight on my skin, and
emotional scars so deep i am still recovering from them.
but most importantly, i have known love. i have known
love for myself, and love for the people who have sewn me back together
piece by piece
tear by tear
and smile by smile.
i have known these people inside and out
dreams and thoughts and ambitions and fears and most of all,
hope.
we hold each other together at the seams. every time we split
we glue ourselves back together with memories and heartache and drunken heartfelt confessions.
this is me, baring my birthday suit to you. my insecurities
are my nakedness. my heart
is on my sleeve.
i am scarred. i have
rolls and snags and marks where there should be none, i
am coming apart at the seams, i am spilling over
with feeling, with the idea that there is a beyond. what do you think people think of
when they think of a beyond? do they mean the one that comes to them after they die or
the one that happens to the world after they do?
sometimes i hold on to these ideas of almost-existentialism and try not to cry when we read about them in class.
i used to say i was broken.
when i said i was broken, i imagined a sea of smashed lightbulbs, filaments
flickering feebly in an attempt at survival. what i was, was broken mirror
shattered vase
and an unsaveable phone screen. in my head,
i was poetry. but this is me, in my birthday suit. not hiding behind my purple
prose, not hiding behind my blurry concept of broken. i
am not broken. i was never
broken.
i like to think about the fact
that iron flows through my veins. i think about it a lot, the way i used to think
that letting the blood out of them would help me vocalise my broken.
today, i went for a walk and i thought of ways to not go home and make it look like an accident.
(i am fat, i am worthless, i am redundant, i don't deserve to live i don't deserve to live i)
today, i came back home. i ate dinner. i wrote this poem. i talked to my friends. and i thought about whether anyone really deserves to live.
the way i see it, i've been holding on for so long for the promise of bright lights and soft smiles and long car rides into the unknown and someone to fix me, to put me back together
i forgot what i already had.
i have glue, i have drunken confessions and smiles and long drives and longer hugs from people who love me.
twenty-five is just five years away, and it feels like forever.
i know how fast it's going to go. i know. i know i'm going to look back, and i'm going to say
*"i'm so glad i didn't **** myself at the age of twenty."*
what i'm trying to say is chin up, sunshine.
this feeling will never go away.
you will always feel the pull of steel and you will always look at very tall buildings with just one guilty thought, and write bad poetry, and **** up your metaphors, and
hold on to your hearts of glass and your constellations and your big city dreams, and
that one person you can't stop writing about.
you're going to find your birthday suit. you're going to find your naked
your unprepared
your "i'm barely holding on"
your swan song. you're going to stand in front of someone with a full heart
and an unburdened soul
even if it is for five minutes, you're going to hold your best friend's hand and say
*"i'm so glad i didn't **** myself five years ago,"*
and
"i love you."
chin up, sunshine.
it's never going to get better
and that's more than okay.
Mar 14, 2016
Mar 14, 2016 at 2:15 PM UTC
the very first thought i have each morning when i wake up is "i'd rather be dead"
but i am still so very glad i did not **** myself at the age of fifteen.
in five years, i have known. i have known triviality
heartbreak
physical scars that shine white and straight on my skin, and
emotional scars so deep i am still recovering from them.
but most importantly, i have known love. i have known
love for myself, and love for the people who have sewn me back together
piece by piece
tear by tear
and smile by smile.
i have known these people inside and out
dreams and thoughts and ambitions and fears and most of all,
hope.
we hold each other together at the seams. every time we split
we glue ourselves back together with memories and heartache and drunken heartfelt confessions.
this is me, baring my birthday suit to you. my insecurities
are my nakedness. my heart
is on my sleeve.
i am scarred. i have
rolls and snags and marks where there should be none, i
am coming apart at the seams, i am spilling over
with feeling, with the idea that there is a beyond. what do you think people think of
when they think of a beyond? do they mean the one that comes to them after they die or
the one that happens to the world after they do?
sometimes i hold on to these ideas of almost-existentialism and try not to cry when we read about them in class.
i used to say i was broken.
when i said i was broken, i imagined a sea of smashed lightbulbs, filaments
flickering feebly in an attempt at survival. what i was, was broken mirror
shattered vase
and an unsaveable phone screen. in my head,
i was poetry. but this is me, in my birthday suit. not hiding behind my purple
prose, not hiding behind my blurry concept of broken. i
am not broken. i was never
broken.
i like to think about the fact
that iron flows through my veins. i think about it a lot, the way i used to think
that letting the blood out of them would help me vocalise my broken.
today, i went for a walk and i thought of ways to not go home and make it look like an accident.
(i am fat, i am worthless, i am redundant, i don't deserve to live i don't deserve to live i)
today, i came back home. i ate dinner. i wrote this poem. i talked to my friends. and i thought about whether anyone really deserves to live.
the way i see it, i've been holding on for so long for the promise of bright lights and soft smiles and long car rides into the unknown and someone to fix me, to put me back together
i forgot what i already had.
i have glue, i have drunken confessions and smiles and long drives and longer hugs from people who love me.
twenty-five is just five years away, and it feels like forever.
i know how fast it's going to go. i know. i know i'm going to look back, and i'm going to say
*"i'm so glad i didn't **** myself at the age of twenty."*
what i'm trying to say is chin up, sunshine.
this feeling will never go away.
you will always feel the pull of steel and you will always look at very tall buildings with just one guilty thought, and write bad poetry, and **** up your metaphors, and
hold on to your hearts of glass and your constellations and your big city dreams, and
that one person you can't stop writing about.
you're going to find your birthday suit. you're going to find your naked
your unprepared
your "i'm barely holding on"
your swan song. you're going to stand in front of someone with a full heart
and an unburdened soul
even if it is for five minutes, you're going to hold your best friend's hand and say
*"i'm so glad i didn't **** myself five years ago,"*
and
"i love you."
chin up, sunshine.
it's never going to get better
and that's more than okay.
Request permission to use this poem