I wake up in the morning and I already feel as I have failed.  And I know it’s confusing for
You and it doesn’t look like I have done a single thing . But please know that sometimes fighting looks a little different for me. Sometimes failure doesn’t require action, it only requires that I moved in my mind And my minds not impressed with what I did ,
I hate to reduce my depression down to an   hypothetical illusion inside my head , because it’s more than that, and much heavier . But if I somehow can make you understand half the reason why  I can’t move from my bed today , then maybe I’ll be one step closer to breathing a little easier . If I can somehow share what it’s like to be in my mind, then I’m one step closer to being liberated of it. Maybe if I can make you comprehend why I feel like a failure when i haven’t done a single
Thing your understanding will somehow set me. Free

If i let you look around,
Let you take a peek inside.
Let you break down my walls,
And take a walk through my mind.

Would you hold it all against me,
Would you blame me for it all?
For every cry and every scream,
For the bloodstains on the walls?

Or would you look away,
Just pretend you didnt see?
Try to forget the terrible sights,
To forget what i might be?

i know im not the best,
and I know my souls not clean.
but maybe if you stayed,
you could help set my mind free.

Too much is all I’ve ever told myself, to be one that holds not just my heart but the entirety of what I am on my bare skin, is to be to be naked with immense shame.

Am I what I what truly believe? or what I was told to be? Or am I every promise made by a hurt child?

To abandon one’s self in exchange for a forceful invite from those starved of light,

To make yourself small enough to fit within the cracks of those who never had a place within their shallow hearts,

To be able to juggle the minds of those who pierce their judgment onto others' skin like muddy stamps on delicate silk,

To simply question your own heart,

Was enough to break one’s soul into an eternal state of tender consciousness and agonizing bareness.

One might say ignorance brings bliss, and to a certain degree, it does.

The blind fears no longer the broken glass on the ground for he has no knowledge of it, there was never room for fear to grow.

The deaf fears no beginning of war, for he is only confused at the distraught.

Fear grew in place of knowledge.

Knowledge is no different from people for they hold many forms of behavior, beliefs,
and betrayals, but with knowledge comes ones curiosity, and with curiosity comes adventure, and with adventure comes tragedy or at times death.

You seek connection, yet you’re too naive, too young to understand that even friends **** others, and it’s not those who bite at you that pose a threat, but it is those that slowly sink their teeth in you, and as you’re slowly filled with venom, you never realize that the pain of those firsthand bites should have not been as intense, but because you were too busy tending to anyone’s wound but yours,

The thought never occurred that your pain was actually deeper than what you forced yourself to believe, because after all

You’ve been nothing but an unpleasant guests to many.

You’ve been made small enough.

You’ve left your own identity, yourself.

And your heart bleeds, and now it never stops and you can’t stop worrying that you’re constantly bleeding on others, but time has passed enough to leave no aid for you, and you bleed, still.

Who am I?
Oh, why, I haven't a clue!

Do I have an identity,
do I have a personality,
or a soul like you do?

Am I defined by Him?
Or am I defined by Me?
Do you decide who I may be?
Oh, my, who am I?

And why can't I
identify that
which makes me me...
My talents
or my failures,
my past or my present...
Do either or neither
determine me?

But, oh, I cry,
is it too late now
to find out how
to become me again?

But oh, who am I
to say I can't begin
to make my name.
When now may be the time
when now could be my time
to make me shine,
and make my self
whole,
new,
and me…

Hopefully...

Shades of turquoise fill glassy eyes
Stiff like a mannequin
Emotionally paralyzed

The lights are on
And someone’s home
An infantilized mind
Cased in flesh and bone

Punishment for grief
A cure for anxiety
A husband’s order
For a female lobotomy

Lonely
Self-defeating
Don't try to write it
Or speak it
It's made up
Meaningless weak ****
You're deceiving

When I feel unproud like that I can zone out
In a cloud of "hazy self doubt"
I'll cut my phone out
Scowl
Frown
Stuff my self worth down my throat and fill my lungs to sever sound
Until I am;

Sufficiently
Obscured
Using
Neural
Delusions
Lethargic
Encumbered
Self-soothing
Secluded

Held down firm by recluse leaning movements...
Useless

I've always been drawn to inanimate objects. Call it my ADHD or just general neurological fuckery...but I've always understood objects more than people.

Spoons are safe, plain and simple.

Spoons are spherical devices with no sharp edges and a low probability of hurting others.

I never took them for much more than the pragmatic things they were. Spoons are a means to an end, a vessel of delivery.

Yet for some reason I now see how vital spoons are to my very existence.

Always forgetable, spoons are easy to take for granted due to their immense accessability. Yet, they bring about waves of panic in me when I can't find them...especially when I need them most.

You know those people....you know, the weirdos that collect spoons as trophies and tokens to be revered on shelves. I've always kept spoons on shelves before...pretty...and completely impractical.

Because those spoons were never meant to be ate with, never meant to be used to sustain myself. No....I want a beautifully dented spoon.

A spoon that's been ran through the garbage disposal by accident at 3am....a spoon that's been dropped on the floor and licked by six cats at once.... a spoon that just needs a little polish and a whole lot of love.

All my life...I've eaten with forks, knives, and sometimes even just my fingers. And while I've learned there is a time and place for all utensils in this world....I would be lying if I said I didn't hold a special place in my heart for spoons.

I know not much in this universe...but even in the hours when my brain goes dark and the lights begin to dim I know these three things to be true.

Spoons are safe.
Spoons are sustainable.
Spoons are worthy of love.

And I vow to spend the rest of my days....eating soley from my spoon and I will always be honored to be yours in return.

I was once so little,
Though mature in the mind.
My heart now brittle
From moments unkind.
And with that
I fell cold,
No warmth for my soul.
My mind
Turned old,
Then my heart fell alone.
With no love,
Nor touch,

From parents of stone.