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The Highs taste like Lemon Heads
Before burning my mouth like Cinnamon Red Hots.
The Lows go down like soup of ash and cold water.
I am forever trying to find a balance between the flavors of mania
And the blandness of depression.
Often, I find myself hungry in the wee hours,
Dismayed by both options.
Ingram Feb 2022
How do you begin to describe your feelings of loneliness
and your mental seclusion from the world
when your surrounding world
only sees the built facade of belonging.
I write to stay alive,
To release the words that tear my flesh
In their efforts to be born into this world.
I write to leave my mark on the universe
Rather than leaving marks on my skin.
I write to prevent the silence from strangling me
In its utter oppressiveness.
I write to wash the sins out of my body
And the stains off of my hands.
I bleed ink rather than blood
And wax poetic to avoid coveting new scars.
I write because it's the only way I've ever learned
To externalize the humanity that cuts me so deeply.
I write because language saves me from myself.
I write because my very existence depends on it.
tainted black Feb 2022
i remember the embers dying,
the chest that felt the sting,
the wound that kept on aching,

the silence between rivers of thought; tempting to sing.

it hums, it buzzes
as my mind right there fuzzes---
blank--- black
what the hell was that?

everything turned gray
then rainbows, then rain
followed by a strong
h   u    r    r   i    c    a    n    e

i twirled, buzzed
fiddled and dozed
a lot more of nothing
until it became everything


the silence grew loud
i wanted to get out
its fingers--- no claws
crawled, until there was jaws


i screamed, but screaming was painful
it burned me, until i was put out.
a scribnle from a scattered thought.
N Feb 2022
My mind is a shrieking graveyard
that is too freighting to visit alone

Sometimes,
I hear the skulls of all the people I
have ever loved rattling inside my heart

I do not know how to quiet
down their wailings at night

I have nothing to offer them,
but my dripping pain

Alone, I weep,
lamenting their forgotten laughter
neth jones Feb 2022
contaminated...                            

the boy is explained in the dark
                  made smaller and tighter than his thirteen years
        invented a-tread each direful night ;
            in place of restfulness
                   he is tussled :

itchy within                                    
moans of a growth owning pain
domestic air is newly surrogate
the boy flees upstairs
the condition of the home is sickly
             excreted beads from the fibres
a pale mix is gland
                        a perspiration out of sorts
pursed
spritzed
lively          
            then a wing-ed light smog

keeping to his room                            
he sits on his bed to 'wait it out'
the sun downs                        
as fruited ideas                
                   treacle up the pine wood walls
as otherworld tones        
                             flute the flumes that plumb the walls
as his mother clears the dishes
        with the radio on
as the fathers increasing tardiness
        makes the wound hour leaden further

outside
wind starts churning up the monster
hustling the coniferous trees
stoking the forrest for its brazen voice
jeeving hard upon the house
dry *******
inducing a perverse osmosis
within                                              
          pressurized audibility is clayed
hairs on the carpet tick static
              ....  this negative duress

outside
the moon hides its legend            
an autumn owl takes the bough
     just above the boys window
    it hunches into its ruffle
       retches up a pellet of prey
fur and crushed bone
            clatters dryly into the gutter

the boy works his jaw
       relieving his popping ears
the rooms climate becomes sparky
important items radiate auras :
             the scorpion in formaldehyde
stolen from school
                          grandmas mourning ring on a string
                suspended above his desk
        an old key discovered in  the woods

investigation                          
a brief hole in sound
a slim bik of light traverses
  over the boy
    the bed
       and out into the hallway
it winks gone
     and sips of smoke
like lithe neat scraps of silk
start livening the corners of vision

he stands                                                      
open­s his closest and dresses for sleep
      yield to routine

Mother enters                              
    always a human breath                  
                                         of pre decay warmth
      here to make him into his bed
bound by her neat practiced tucks
                         the boy receives her loving words
                                  but she's in a separated world from his
distortion gums up the audibility          
he attends to lips
the blessings don't function right
mistress smudges are left in the air            
they trail from the corners of her mouth
                             with the expressive turns of her head

fending lightly from the room
she blows a kiss at the doorway
it punches a little galaxy swirl
                              and suspends
a heated blue weave of the hand
                    and she is gone

door concluded and the light left on
the wall flower patterns crick and shale loose
    they cash into the flooring
and in turn the floorboards palpitate finely
feathering into a unreliable state

less than a minute later ...                   
fathers presence                              
   makes an apologetic attempt
                                                     at a ghost-walk
sounds clumbered in an aquarium                
    he slides his back down the drunken partition
and talks
   he sells a story of personal wretchedness
some lesson is vague
flammability
the boy takes the readings                  
                  of the distant vocal squall
pauses in the erratic speech weather expect replies  
     but the boy fears this colonized version of the father

though anger
                        father does not enter
rumbles his fists, feet              
                 and frustration at the wall
stands                                            
      and­ punches his footfalls
                  to the master bedroom

the parents
together now closeted
amniotic             
their world fidgets fiercely and swells          
swaddled in their own dramatics
firing blindly                        
their voices
travel the pipes in the walls
back to the boys room
                drowned of discourse
but not the aggressive 'passion' flaring out
they plunder the boys ears

Sudden ! ;                
                  brakked smell of flint
a bird slams the window dead        
crack in the pressure
unbearable penetrating release
screaming the boy host violent
minds that bind are loosened
subpoenaed                                              ­
          the boy recoils and fends this raid
kicks off the bedding
strips free of his pyjamas
a thick layer of his own goes with it
fleecing his actual skin                        
raw stinging exposure
he tugs at the flay of his own rubbery peel
enough layers of dermis in one
grip and pull
to make real hurt
raw of pain
(it feels)
tug-tug
grip
and pull
sleeves off of limbs
and a sappy caul from his bonce
he doffs the leather onto the floor
fresh wash of song
fierce waves of signals hot and cool
he ***** up his matty sheered hide
"**** it !"
pulls up the window enough
vent
an outward 'gush' as the pressure balances
the boy                        
dispose    
      push the viscid pelt out
the boy expels
disgorged into the night

                                              - consummated
I am so lost
In a world that demands I always know
What path my feet pound.
I am seeing ghosts in the mirror,
Memories that follow me
Like I am some sort of light leader.
My face no longer looks the same.
It's shadowed by this sadness,
And I am so tired of feeling like the undead,
Wishing the "un" had never existed in the first place.
I am so lost in a dream I cannot wake up from,
Floating through the air in a twisted mesh of unreality.
I am so lost.
I am so lost.
Robyn Little Jan 2022
Well now, haven’t you got the prettiest shell?
So smooth and glossy, bright and slick,
And so unique!
So different from everyone else!

Although…

Are you sure about pink? Doesn’t seem right
Not green! It doesn’t suit you!
You don’t want black! Too boyish!
That much red?! What an eyesore!
Oh, don’t look so blue! We’ll get this right

You know the young ones always look darling
Always pure white, they look so angelic
Wouldn’t you want to be more like them?
It was only a suggestion dear!
Don’t storm off in a strop! What’s wrong with you?
Think outside the box? Why would you need to?
I’m sorry darling, I guess you just -
I guess it just doesn’t...feel like you

You know, I think we’ll just paint it for you!
How about a nice white?
Maybe grey or beige
Oh, no dear grey is too ugly…
How about charcoal, a nice dark shell yes?
You’ll blend right in!
There we go! That is much better!
It’s perfect this way
You’re perfect this way.
Louise Jan 2022
I look in the mirror.
I love the way my starved body looks now.
I love the way the bags under my eyes look,
after I haven't slept for weeks.
I love the way my chapped lips look
because I haven't had a sip of water today.
And I love the catches on my body,
from the blade I put to my skin.
TW: Self Harm, ED
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