I had a dream I had slept in your bed but things were different, it was colder on your side and I tried to reach for your hand but I couldn't find it.
I woke up to the feeling of my organs being ripped out of my stomach. I found your hands.
To whom it may concern,
Please keep an unbiased opinion on what you’re about to read.
I promise this is not what you think it is even if it seems to be.
And everything is never as it seems.
This is more than an admission that I’ve gotten myself under control.
Please don’t doubt me.
Why are you looking at me like that?
You’d be shocked to find out that I’m as good as I say I am
And I’ve been remembering to take my medicine.
I know you’re laughing. Why are you laughing?
I just meant that If good things happen to bad people then I must be a saint
Because misery loves company and despair and misfortune
It does not discriminate
Before your roll your eyes please let me explain.
I’m trying to tell you that you’ll be happy to know i let go of the shadow that only comes out in the night time
It’s easier to write myself into the dusty books in my closet that I finally got myself to read than write about what has brought me to the exit of a street that never felt like home to me.
because I’m afraid of how my life will play out.
Please understand what I mean.
I already know these stories now so it’s easier to imagine myself with an ending that wasn’t by my own hand.
And I’m afraid I’m not strong enough to find that my end is where I began.
Hitting my head on the bathroom floor again.
That’s not how this was suppose to go.
That concludes my letter
I guess I’m trying to say that
I see myself die in third person all the time and
I know I won’t get into to hell
Because purgatory has always been my security blanket.
I’ll send you a post card. Wish me well.
This is the part where you’d be bewildered to find out this is a letter to my bathroom mirror
because it’s always easier to lie when you’re not looking someone in the eyes.
And I was strong enough to look up
And say that I can finally admit it to myself that The sadness came and it didn’t look like a stranger or the words that erupted like volcanoes from their vocal chords.
It looked like me with my eyes wide. Forgiving.
I think? At least I hope.
1.The closet door on Christmas morning with bullet holes the size of my fathers fists holding the death of my childhood behind it on hangers.
2. The basement door when it slammed as I watched my father walk away. Not knowing if he'll ever come back, and if I'll ever come back from this.
3. Your bedroom door when your mother was banging on it at 4 in the morning asking why there was blood all over the bathroom walls. It was yours. And that was the night I realized if you could lie to your mother why wouldn't you lie to me?
4. The front door when you got kicked out of the party and I went find you. You told me you loved me for the first time on the front porch. And in that moment it was finally quiet no matter how loud it was in my head.
5. The car door with rain slamming against it like your clench fist the night you had to drive me home after I screamed my lungs out that it was enough.
6. The hospital door that morning all my friends and i were held captive in our own minds trying to keep each other together. But there was so much blood.
7. The window that led to the door of an abandoned house that felt like home to me more than mine ever did.
8. That bathroom door 14 pills and a razor. It will never stop.
9. The back door when you heard me say I didn't really love you. I lied.
10. My car door making friends with a guard rail. Spinning around and around like a carousel. 150ft to my death wasn't low enough.
I know there were suppose to be 11 doors but the last one hasn't opened yet. And I don't know if it ever will
You wear the mentally ill on a sash around your body and your heart on your sleeve screaming "everybody look at me I want to die"
using it for dollar signs acting like an advocate but you couldn't hold hands with sympathy even if it dug it's picket sign into your vertebrae
Mental illness is mightier than the sword; or you'd like to think anyway.
It is not your title it is not your fame mental illness wasn't written on your birth certificate in place of your name
You didn't open your mouth for the first time for in place of a cry be a poem about depression that ironically rhymes
You can't possibly praise yourself for sleeping for days and waking up to realize everything is exactly the same.
I'm glad that you're coping but how much better can it be when you wear a smile with teeth made of OCD.
"When I grow up I wanna be a mental disorder" and you sculpted your craft, i bet it's exciting to build your delusions a life raft.
If I peeled back your layers all I would find is all of your ailments standing in a spotlight. A collective of people trying to be defined by every single problem they've had in their life.
How much depth could you all even hold when the hour glass is running thin on your throne made of unstable gold?
Pain is beauty and I get that but don't act like you're better than me just because you like being sad.
3 blind mice they play with a gun.
Don't worry about this poem though, we'll all be fine.
Mental illness is not my name, but i wrote this with mine.
Every touch of your lips to my porcelain skin flushed memories into my blood stream.
I choked back the drunken tears and apologies and replaced them with 'I miss you's' and the minutes I had the privilege of playing with your hair, I was at peace.
I missed your hands and the way you worry about my relentless insomnia.
I missed you squeezing my hand as if though my life was in danger.
Every second spent with you feels like my lungs are collapsing and I've never felt more alive.
God ****** every night I feel like dying but the fact that you exist in the big wasteland of **** is enough to keep my impulsions quiet.
The fact that you breathe and you sweat keeps my heart beating out of my chest and I can't get my vessels to find cessation.
I itch and i crave to be your favorite mess.
I want to kiss you where it hurts until it hurts even more.
I want to heal every wound that cuts deeper than your pores make you believe that your worth is so much ******* more than anyone who's led you to believe that it wasn't before.
I am the hollow tree trunk coffin where creatures go to die and you are mine.
Until I realized you were rotting.
You became cold and unaware that your impulsions could get the better half of you. Biting your tongue became a habit you couldn't break And I know I fed your addiction.
I was sick and you were quiet.
Your branches just couldn't withstand to hold the weight of my heavy heart and I dropped.
You cut off my leaves and pulled out my trust.
And it just wasn't enough.
We withered away.
They dug up your roots and I watched you decay.
And it was my fault, it had always been.
I am your rotten apple, your Pandora's box.
You cut me open and unleashed the chaos. And I'm sorry.
You didn't deserve that. No one does.
I'm a hollow body and I'm sorry my soul tried to swarm on yours and erupted.
I'm sorry about the buzzing.
I'm sorry I couldn't hold you up on my branches.
I'm sorry you didn't love me as much as you love her and as much as I love you.
I'm sorry I...
Okay New York here we go, today's the day.
That we're speaking in memory of someone who spent their whole life pretending to be someone they never could be
Loved by many but everyone who has ever loved you was a figment of your imagination
What is a person without a spine to hold them up right?
A snake in every sense of the word.
You slithered around your whole life glorifying your misery for a retweet and a spot at an open mic
What better describes the life of a starving artist than to sleep in your car but be found dead in the morning
You said you wished she would meet you at the rocks in Montauk but you were at rock bottom the whole time and no one would meet you there.
And you were down with abandoned ship that washed up against your loneliness
And abandoned things should stay abandoned when they're full of black mold and pathetic
I wrote this poem with my left hand because you felt like you were someone else
And I used my left hand when I finally pulled the plug
Time of death November 28th 1986
My dad doesn't understand visiting graves.
He says when you're dead you're dead.
That's when I realized death switched from a fear to a feeling.
He was always good at turning problems into cadavers
And painting on a fake smile with a chest cavity full of black matter.
I never did cry when my dog died
I put the constant in numb.
And sometimes I sit in that parking lot and I chain myself to my memories in protest
If you want to move past this you're gonna have to go through me.
I let the pavement swallow me whole
And think about what would've happened if she made it inside.
I want to tell you about when it was that I stopped sitting in doctors chairs and why my nightmares have teeth.
How I wish you would treat me like a tombstone
About how I want to be buried in the park across the street from my house.
How there is nothing beautiful
about names that read like funerals.
I wonder why some houses keep lights on in every window
As if they're waiting for someone to come home.
That never will.
And if there is a light that never goes out
Why does the darkness come creeping back in every chance it gets?
And when are you coming home?