it burns like hell
and damnation feels familiar,
there's intimacy in the mistakes we made
and love in our failures
and i wish it was easy to stop caring
damn, it used to be,
it sure as fuck used to be
but here we are

so you can call him all the pretty names
that used to belong to me
and you can shower her with affection
the way you used to do with me

it takes two to tango, or
so the saying goes
so perhaps it's time to start
moving, revising my steps
and i can improvise into my solo

it burns like hell
but that's something i'm used to,
and there's intimacy in all the ways
you've lied and lied and hurt me;
love in our failures
that lingers like a determined scar
so, yes, you can replace me
i can replace you, too
turn that scar into another tattoo so
maybe i can come to love
the pain you left behind

Nicole 1h

just the other day my mother asked me why i don’t write Happy Things.
i couldn’t produced the words from my tongue to explain that happiness is a firefly hovering just out of reach,
how it sometimes dips
just low enough for my fingertips
to brush its wings
before it soars above my head once again.
i couldn’t figure out how to make her understand that most of my time is spent with my head surrounded by darkness, so that the “happy” moments only appear to be a grey light.
my brain functions at a baseline of a light drizzle and a slight chill spent alone,
where happy can't live because of the possibility of catching the sad.
she wouldn’t believe me when i said that i can’t write Happy Things because i need to drain them of their nectar while their light is still in front of me.
i cannot afford to write Happy Things because then i would never have the chance to experience them as close to fullness as I can.

happy doesn’t linger the way depression can.

Deanne 2h

Losing grip of reality, I don’t know what’s next to me, losing touch with the world
The one I’m in that slowly flaked till fall, and I was the one who thought not of at all, but a string around the pieces,
I’ll say we tried but didn’t push, when we did we didn’t force it, when we did we fell nauseous, when we did we heard noises
Same drowned down sound of made up people around.. at least they’re not me.. said she
At least my self would never say, what she wanted to say, she wanted to burn
Darling wanted to wait her turn.. but turns donnot exist when all you need is a match and a box lies in your top drawer, your pocket, you’re a liar
When you say you wait for that heat
But let the water darling drowns in stays cool and cold getting colder around her
At least.

A blue dress
Stained with tears
Dancing slowly
In the moon light
Bare foot and free
Breathing deeply
As the pain sinks in
A memory falls
In a fleeting moment
And fades to blue

Have you ever looked up at the sky
When it was raining
And wondered where the clouds stop?
Because you know
That somewhere across the world
It isn't raining.

So where do the clouds stop?
Is it possible that someone
Is standing right at the edge
Of dry warmth
Gazing out into the cold wetness?

Where do the clouds stop?
Is it possible that someone
Is standing right at the edge
Of where the water falls
Staring out at the daylight?

Where do the clouds stop?
Is it possible to stand
Right at the divide
One hand being hit by raindrops
The other being hit by sun rays?

Where do the clouds stop?

Have you ever looked up at the sky
When it was raining
And wondered when the clouds will stop?
Because you know
That sometime in your future
It won't be raining.

autumn 6h

You always ask
Why I do this to myself
Like you care.

And I make up excuse
After excuse.
But you would hate
To know the real reason.

I destroy myself so you can't.

all that is lost
isn't always meant
to be found,
in the first place;
like faint traces
of your cologne
on the pillow
where i rest;
like our first
awkward picture together;
like your maddening lust
to not be satiated
because it makes you
value things less,
and probably that's why
when you found out
that you could have me:
you left,
because some things, darling
aren't meant to be
found.

We're anything and everything but atypical.

Anorexia. Bulimia. OSFED, binge or orthorexia.

Hell, there's even hybrids now: diabulimia.

There's a name for every demon I've eaten. For the thing that lives inside of me; feeding off of starvation.

There's power in it. You know, the kind of sick courage that comes from skipping meals and counting calories.

Lower numbers, lower anxieties.

When you're thin it's an eating disorder, they say.

When you're fat it's called a diet, they say.

We're surviving on pills and Coke Zero. This isn't the 80's, honey, SlimFast doesn't work as well as two fingers do.

I was taught that pain is beauty, but laxatives on an empty stomach are far from pretty.

I don't want to be beautiful, I want to be nothing. Not a thing in this world. What do I want?

To be like an Angel: perfection on the inside and out.

To be both powerful and protected. In control and out of it.

Is this Schrodinger's eating disorder?

It goes deeper than food. Farther than the veins; blue and translucent underneath my skin.

I'm cold and gone, honey. This thing has got a hold on me.

I'm water, tea, early mornings and late nights. Scales, chewing gum and breath mints.

I'm crushed by the weight hanging off of my bones, and I don't know how to get better.

NEDIC Helpline Canada: 1-866-633-4220

NEDA Helpline USA: 800-931-2237

Can you see the chaos?

They are not talking to you
they are in you
in each flow
of your blood
in every inch
of your bones
the dissonance! the abstract!
the lack of discipline!
it showers beaut
it radiants power
push your existence
through this
like what it is,
an existence, known as
ever since
the depression
cut the chain
get rid of the tie
embrace your persona
light the candle
and dance to this:

The moment you slowly sink
into a set of perfection is just
The moment you dissolve into
the motion of indefinite silence.

clara 16h

How I ache when I trod too far from my prison of a dwelling,
and how I yearn for the loneliness that is my humble abode.
Something like Stockholm Syndrome, but for my own home.
I stumbled into my own head and I’ve been falling ever since.
No, I don’t prefer the silence of an empty room; deafening.
This fickle heart of mine cannot find its solace in cacophony,
cannot find the beauty in the crescendo - only the confusion.
I cry in bathrooms like a sinner cries in the confessional,
desperate - pleading forgiveness - and I curse this fickle heart.
It stays changing its fickle mind: leave me be, love me please.
I curse this fickle body, which hides from all things promising.
I curse this fickle ego, which only ever learned how to shrink.
I curse this fickle being - afraid to be alone but afraid to be seen.
What is a nostomaniac if not a ghost in the attic - an apparition?
It is standing in the corner of the room, the outsider at the party.
It is eyeing the exit like an oasis, always looking for a way out.
It is holding excuses in fists like David clenched pebbles in his,
and it stays towering over all else - bigger than Goliath himself.
What is nostomania if not the trepidation of falling in love, or
making a connection, or feeling something that isn’t self-pity?
There are so many words to describe this kind of loneliness -
this brand of self-sabotage, this existence I will not fight for.
My sadness is quick to love but won’t let anyone love me back.
My sadness is a selfish lover like that but I always swore that
no one would have to face that wrath in a heartbreak arms race,
so I fold it neatly just beneath these open wounds and they ooze
these putrid insecurities but I mask it with this always stoic gaze,
and I’m moving slower than ever, but I’m dying faster these days.

This was really satisfying to write.
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