There are things about you that I believed and felt for the first time,

I believed you carried the sun with you wherever you stood and I never wanted to feel shade again because I bloomed iridescent;

Fell asleep and woke to your rhythms, both of them;
Finally understood why Alaska was written the way she was;

I didn't struggle or even hesitate to say it but you knew I did anyways and didn't heed your warning;

In secret whispers I wanted you to hear, the voice changes, the punctuations, the ideas, in the silence, the space, the linguistic gymnastics despite the fact I couldn't stand the language;

Our story will end the same way I design and create everything else,
With or without my will, it comes to pass and permeates,
Almost comedic that it's spilling into the whispers, the silence, the ideas and the rest of it, beloved sacred aspects withering to new haunting grounds;

Soon I'll stand in the cold dry earth in remembrance,
Unlearning and unleashing back to what I really am,
Lagertha, you once said 'No regrets yet every regret',
Now I already feel those words rattling in my bones,

I cannot to be allowed mourn or grieve when it comes,
For this is my design, my chaos and my fate.

When I grew out of my adolescence
I lost my crippling thrist to write

I stopped cutting myself in my early 20's;
just like the research articles said I would

Disorder direction, however,
was not the cause of my coping correction

I moved away from rampant tantrums
Sliding down the ***** of sufferance


I used to write to externalize my internal desperation
My frustration with the life I was given
(Certainly not the choices I've made)

Over a decade of time has aged me
From a helpless girl, to an impassive woman
Submissive to circumstance

Now, I chain bricks to my ankles
And throw myself in the sea of apathy

I will not expend the energy to care,
but rather intentionally strive for indifference


In doing so, I sacrifice my desire to write…
Losing desperation makes me hollow

Then again, helplessness is for children.

I am a woman now.

I no longer crave the ability to describe my emotions
Asking for help is not a viable option anymore
I've tried that long enough

----TW: brief mention of blood----

i wanna ***** on your floor.
i don't care how gross it is...
i want you to get a good look
and watch it harden and dry -
like my feelings for you,
like your feelings for me,
like someone's feelings about the weather,
like your lips when they occasionally crack,
like my tears after a regular midnight crying session,
like an old man's emotions,
like my emotional intelligence,
like a kid's year old play dough,
like your sliver of remaining motivation,
like an adhd project,
like the blood i'll cough up,
like a teen's sloppily painted nails.
yeah, like all those things.

You are so comfortable

Laying motionless within the bounds of your depression

A familiar sadness welcomes you home

As if to say, “I’ve missed you, old friend”

Nobody could ever understand you like it does

Here, it does not matter if you tend to your responsibilities

Or yourself

All that matters is laying still

Catching up
with an old friend

I’m only supposed to live until 27
27
I am already 21
That means I have 6 years left
6 years feels like so many more lifetimes
Only 23% survive
Am i strong enough to be in the 23%?
I don’t think i am
Nothing is helping
I tell people the meds help
But i’m lying to them just as much as myself
This is a deadly disease
It destroys your mind and your body

ten minutes.
sitting with presley
contemplating
tearing up
not happy
but not in despair
two cold bodies
giving one another
what they need
one shivering
one perpetually alone
three minutes.
i am far
but on the way
thoughts being guides
two minutes.
time is gone
one minute.
i'm more of an adult

and then i realized
only medication or temporary rushes from substances would relieve the pain
the pain of living,
the suffocation of being trapped in a body i feel like i don't belong in
the never ending cycle of anxiety

and so i cried
and i cried so hard until i couldn't breathe
knowing there would never truly be an escape to this thing called life

dearest stranger,

i am too abstract now for my own good. i feel and hold myself, in place, in my hands and i slip right through like sunlight, like tiny moth scales, like the delusions of a sauntering ghost, like all things unreal and untouchable, like a madwoman, laughing away in her free fall to an unsteady ground.

and all the flowers are cheering in their surreal, psychedelic scarlets, and all the rocks are breaking, and all the words are failing to capture what i truly feel.

am i still despairingly corporeal, like paper napkins and panes of glass? am i still in actual flesh, now that god doesn't exist? am i still as tangible as this last, frantic breath of a letter?

am i still actually here?

bidding my farewell now,
ginia