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Where are you?
You’re not coming are you?

It’s okay,
I always knew you wouldn’t.
It’s just, there’s this stupid,
Part of me that likes to fantasise.
She knows you’re no good for her really,
But she imagines it’s all make-believe,
She captures her wildest, strangest dreams
And forges them into some kind of reality.

It’s sick though,
Because that little girl;
You can do anything to her
(Anything at all),
And guess what?
She’ll always forgive you.
She has it stuck in her head,
That she always needs to try again:
It’s as if she owes them all,
Even though she’s the one who took the fall.

I don’t know why she’s still here though,
She doesn’t want you anyway.
She could find herself someone much better to love,
Someone who’s worthy and won’t leave her
Before they had the chance to stay.
Then again,
That’s also just another twisted hopeful dream.
Breeze-Mist Nov 2018
The maladaptive is attractive to those like me
Isn't there a world where you'd rather be
Hours of daydreams at the expense of living
Is worth it for a world more solvable and forgiving
Infection, hiding scars, and makeshift bandages
Are worth it for the focus and the high's advantages
Anonymous self depreciation like a digital confession
Is worth it for hiding my distracted depression
Wandering around with thoughts of the end
Before I start to face down what's going on in my head
"I can't read you my poetry,"
I say completely astonished:
"That's what confident people do,"
I hear myself say to an empty room.

("Talking to yourself is the first sign of madness, the second one is looking for it")

Should I start to feel ashamed?
Because when people tell me I'm not confident now,
I want to scream that they're to blame,
And not for my so called "lack of self-confidence", only for their lies:
Because, I can be very confident sometimes,
I just probably won't tell you about it,
I don't want you to know,
If you thought I was so sure of myself, then that would make me low.

(I'm not speaking to myself though,
I'm simply conversing with people that you don't know are there,
And that's okay because,
I only do it noticeably when I'm alone.
They may not be real, but they exist to me,
Even more so than you and I.)

And yes, I know, that I have my moments;
I know what that feels like;
To question yourself and be convinced that
You're doing everything wrong,
I've had way too many times to recount to you,
But I also know, many occasions where I've secretly taken control back,
Where deep down, I know that I am kind of okay,
And I don't appreciate you questioning that,
Unless that's what I'm purposely trying to make you do.
-And maybe I'm slowly starting to ascertain, or wonder
That it's actually a bit manipulative,
And the fact I do it to make myself feel better
Is kind of messed up,
But honestly? It didn't seem like that when I did it,
I thought it was natural to be self-protective.
AnonEMouse Aug 2018
With the same pen and paper as the last love letter I wrote, I now write this.

Everyday he'll suffer in silence and I'll be content with the thought. The same hand that wrote loving words is the same hand that brought tears to his eyes.
Over betrayal and deceit hidden in plain view with a longing of decadence and validation.


He choose carefully, or so he thought - the wounded of the flock.
But he knew...somehow that I was different.
Unable to be read like a simple book, I am that of an enigma to most, alluring to others.
I could have loved that side of him -- the part unrestrained by persona. The damaged part, carefully tucked away.
But the beast must be fed by the tears of the innocent,
a pervasive pattern of loving women he made love him back.
He fed his soul with their sadness.
For he deceived them for proof of love and in it, he destroyed himself.
Day by day, he'll look at me and realize, like the last - he was wrong.
That someone had cared and someone was hurt, and that was not I.
And I am grateful -
for not loving a traitor.
To his own cause or mine.
Because every time he looks for validation in the tears of others.

I will not be there
and he will not find me.
Truth be told
I'm terrorised with fear,
Because I'm not about to get a father,
I know I'll get a nightmare.
I don't want to enter the place, again,
Where I wish I could go back to my dreams,
To try to make it all better,
Because the reality will be painfully in front of me
And I'll never be able to make it disappear.
Supervening once again,
I'm agitated, unsettled,
Suspecting to be taken by it:
The madness, insanity, instability
But -
Mostly just the hurt,
And wonder, discomfort from the lacking.

It steals me
Yet I can never take ahold of it,
It leaves me confused, crying and abandoned once more,
It never resists,
Success this has against me
As I am held hostage.

Where am I?
In my mind which I can't empty.
I guess at least,
This way I'm inflicting this sorrow on myself,
So in a twisted way I'm in control,
Except I'm not:

Because I don't always want to run and hide -
Well actually I do, most of the time,
But I want this to be true
Or to be capable of staying in reality.
What I'm doing is a messed up thing,
Because whilst escaping real life I bring those painful situations,
Back into my world of comfort,
Just so I can battle with them some more.

If this is some type of war,
I think I'll die fighting,
And no one will be winning,
As I'm the only enemy.
"I must admit I've really missed you."
She whispers, speaking to her imagination.
A lonely room, a quiet girl
And a world full of wonderland.

"Why can't you be here, please?" She sobs secretly into her pillow,
Tempted to ask God if the sorrow will ever end,
Will it go away?
Her nightly prayers she saves for other questions.

"I really need you." She confesses,
But she's talking to herself.
I feel it's pull again,
Like gravity I can't avoid it,
Do I gather my defences,
Attempt to make the peace last a little longer?

Only if I forget something:
That this is my defence
Yet it never needs a reason to grasp me,
Making me crumble under its fix.

Slowly? I ask,
Just one more breath lasting in reality?
Slowly? - gone.
And I won't be coming back for as long as
The storm inside my head lasts.

The truth about this is,
It doesn't like being ignored.
I could try to distract myself,
Only it would never be successful
Once it's on it's way it won't leave you,
Not until it's satisfied and
You're weeping all alone,
Because all that's just happened to you
Is nothing to anyone at all.
Explains my experience of Maladaptive Daydreaming.
Carolina Apr 2018
My mind's full of thoughts
I don't want.
Sequences, images of things
I can never have.
It's not about fantasizing about a better life
before you get to sleep.
It's about dissociating from reality
and excessively gritting your teeth.
You want and try to stop
but in a few seconds
you find yourself lost.
I can't remember when did it all begin,
probably way back before I was even a teen.
I want to cut my skin open and get out of my body, leave behind this broken mind.
It smothers me, it takes me to the edge,
it's eating me alive.
I'm losing it. Oh, I'm losing myself.
I don't want a way out, I want to be dead.
As I write this I'm imagining things.
Stop! Someone, rescue me!
I'm losing it.
Can I go crazy? I think I will.
I'll **** myself before it ends me.
I'm losing it.
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