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Aus 18h
I talked to my therapist today
for the 7th time
it was like the 2nd, 4th, and 5th times
where I felt and listened and talked and explained and felt
but it wasn’t like the 1st, 3rd, or 6th times
because I didn’t feel better
The 7th time was like the 7th time
It matched the circular stencil I trace
when I try to fix myself in my head
I was me during the 7th time
But something
had turned my volume down

The other times I wore a smile hard enough to make her think I’m kind and interesting  and okay like I do with everyone
This time though, I was being held by my brain like an ant in a glass box
And the heavy invisible walls of the glass box are like my emotions that make it harder to breathe sometimes
and I repeated a lot of what we discussed during the 1st, 3rd, and 6th times
not because I wanted or needed to talk about it again
but because it pokes a finger in that spot between my shoulder blades and whispers to me all of the things I want to change about myself
and so on the 7th time, i used my vocal cords to let those words out
so maybe they’d be a little quieter

These whisper words are the things I didn’t know about me until I turned 13 or 14
and I started to become a whole person
The whisper things are those small strips of adhesive in between the big pieces that make a whole person
like the parts of a special coffee mug that
was broken and got glued together, but will probably never really hold coffee again
it may look good on a shelf
or bring back a fond memory
when you see it tucked away in the cabinet
But it won’t ever function
the way it was crafted to
Because something broke it
And used cheap glue to put it back together

But this was only the 7th time
And I’m hoping
that by the 8th time, I can tell the ant to leave the glass.
I want to tell my breath to come and go as it pleases
And tell my back not to hurt
because it is a good back
and my lungs are good lungs.
And that voice that whispers
It isn’t my voice
But is the voice of broken coffee mugs.

Maybe I will believe it after the 8th time.
I have everything I want. But my mind still visits times we had together. It's melancholy really. A beautiful time shared between us when we  had been so lost ourselves.  But yet we found some type of hope inside our wicked bodies.
Yesterday I weighed myself.⁣⁣⁣
On a scale.⁣⁣⁣
And had a huge breakdown.⁣⁣⁣
And hated the number.⁣⁣⁣
And hated myself.⁣⁣⁣
But after thinking about it,⁣⁣⁣
After crying about it,⁣⁣⁣
After having 18843765345 thoughts about what to do about it,⁣⁣⁣
I did nothing.⁣⁣⁣
It’s ‘just’ a number.⁣⁣⁣
How is the amount of times I made someone smile, ⁣⁣⁣
Measured in that number?⁣⁣⁣
How is the love I’ve been giving,⁣⁣⁣
Measured in that number?⁣⁣⁣
How are my memories, ⁣⁣⁣
travels, ⁣⁣⁣
personality, ⁣⁣⁣
friends, ⁣⁣⁣
life, ⁣⁣⁣
f*cking dependant on a number?⁣⁣⁣
It’s simply not.⁣⁣⁣
I weigh hope, ⁣⁣⁣
I weigh determination and ⁣⁣⁣
I weigh the fights I didn’t give in.⁣⁣⁣
I weigh the risk of the unknown,⁣⁣⁣
I weight the times I rose up when I thought I couldn’t,⁣⁣⁣
I weigh stories and kisses and adventures.⁣⁣⁣
I weigh the colours of the sunset and the dreams of the sunrise,⁣⁣⁣
I weight the sound of the rain and the smell of the earth, ⁣⁣⁣
I weigh the million pens I’ve used to write my story.⁣⁣⁣
And all that ***** heavy.⁣⁣⁣
I weigh so much more than I ever have,⁣⁣⁣
And I couldn’t care less about my weight.⁣⁣⁣
Because I weigh me, and that’s never too much and always enough.⁣⁣⁣
Yesterday I weighed myself.⁣⁣⁣
On a scale.⁣⁣⁣
And I realised ⁣⁣⁣
There will never be a scale that can weigh me.⁣⁣
Written by: Maria
Haven't posted any poems in a while, but today I chanced upon this lovely poem which I believe would resonate with many of you too. Often we end up hating ourselves and getting depressed for many reasons- maybe because we think we are not good enough; maybe because we have set too high expectations for ourselves; maybe it is because we feel that we do not look as good as others or as skinny as others. Here is a reminder, and an encouragement for all of you out there who need this: You are NOT defined by your weigh; you are NOT defined by what others think of you; you are NOT defined by the challenges you face or your "failures". Everyone makes mistakes; everyone is special is their own way; no one if perfect and the most important thing is for us to take a deep breath and reflect: to realise that everyone is different and that we are unique in our own way and therefore we should love ourselves with our whole heart for who we are; to embrace our "flaws" and instead learn to love these aspects of ourselves as they are the things that make us special. How can you life be defined by a small mistake you made; a criticism you received from someone; or even just a simple number on the scale? How plausible is it for you to hate yourself and want to change yourself just because of that? Your life is precious. Our live are worth more than these minute things-- if ony we would take the time to pause; to reflect; and to see the beauty in life- and most importantly-your own beauty. Love yourself ♡

Have a great day everyone :)
When women ****, 'tis a blessing,
As they drug an innocent young man,
Shedding his clothes for the reaping,
And then blame him for being a man,

When women beat, 'tis funny,
As they drag the guy crying for help,
His blood dripping as thick as honey,
Women laughing at his painful yelp,

When women lie, 'tis truth when she cries,
You'll be called a sexist if you don't believe, For when women do visciously decieve,
All the knights in the land rally and rise,

And without a careful judgement of the court,
A man was sentenced to the living morgue,
Behind bars of steel inside a stone fort,
Rotting inside like his fellow corpses.
This is not to poke fun at women harrasment. This is to make people aware of the GIANT ELEPHANT in the room which is men being abused. And a brief summary as to why they don't tell. Many abused male victims, including myself have suffered too much because we couldn't tell anyone or else it would be turned on us. I hope we find that we are all equal and no one supercedes the other. There will always be two sides of a coin.
thirteen years old was first
the words hidden in my teeth were seen
on window pane bone shattered
spelled primal utterance
carved in disillusioned groans

foreshadowing of roads
lain ahead on tracks
strewn in leather bootstraps
a brother hears his leg snap
like screeching eagles

the reading is clearer
with age, comprehension
improves parallel to sorrow
the price of silence whispers
woven in slow rips of pyche's shawl

the mind shouts why
don't you pay
but first my molar
splits in two, shrieking
the rot has set in
hands firmly grasps the
bottoms of boots
gravity laughs in
chorus of unpayable premiums
pulling harder tills my foot
In trenches of mud
uncovered in the earth
spells a solemn word
written from fossils of my teeth
Health care is a right
Sometimes I wonder
If those who've never experienced the grueling lows of depression
Truly experience the moment
When the sun catches your soul in just the right way
And you finally feel warmth in your bones.
sometimes words mean nothing
therefore it is better to show than tell
Poem from my book
Outside it rages
blusters and blows
away with the cobwebs
enough of those
the air so fresh
flows down my throat
a cleansing purity
had ever I hoped

hair pulled and clothes tugged
this way and that
A dance with nature
though it feels like combat
unforgiving and powerful
the wind at sea
a wake-up call, a reminder
of how thankful I must be
After some weeks of clouded mentality, here is a poem about how a blustery day can whip me back into shape.
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