there's something wrong with my head.
minutes turn into days, days turn into nothingness,
fall through me like i'm made of holes,
scars form where grass used to grow.

i'm in the middle of an uninhabited desert,
i'm in a crowd, so dense there's barely room for a breath.
my thoughts follow their own footsteps,
caught in a game of hide-and-seek with myself.

i should've paid more attention to chemistry,
because i think my brain is missing some vital element,
one that would finally show me how to be whole.
but there is something wrong with my head.

Deep in the middle
of the Irish midlands,
my essence is all over.

You’d put one foot inside
and say I haven’t changed—
hoarding sentimental knick-knacks,
all valueless, all lovely,
all me.

You’d put one foot inside,
it’s ***** and it’s warm,
all irrelevant, all lonely,
all me.

A third of you want to
Play pretend, like Barbie and Ken.
Americas a dream house in a
Dreamland.

As if we aren’t all feeling the
Same fires or drowning in
the same
Waters.

We need you to
Pay attention too.
Ignorance may seem like
Bliss for now

A third of you want to
Stay uninformed
Negligence is a nod
To the oppressor to
Go on and push through

A third of you will see a
Third of us dead on the
Streets and try to weep.

Identity has no attachment
                          Where from
It is held down as a constant
                          To cover the years

   Identity is suggestive
Fluid in our perception
                As an ice cube
     Between your palms
                        Dissolves
     To slip through your fingers

You’ve overfed me everything you had at your disposable
Staring up at me as I’m hanging from the ceiling.
Chocolate, syrup, honey, lollipops.
My belly’s rumbling.
It’s scaring me.
Sweat continues to wash over my pale face.
With trembling hands I try to tear my stomach open by myself.
And there you are waving a bat right underneath my feet.
“Blindfold on or off?” You ask amusingly with a growing grin.
The black fabric peaking from your pocket which you ignore to take out.
I’ve lost. My mouth sewn shut. I can’t be saved now.
I mumble uncontrollably as you raise for the first blow.
It hurts, my whole body is ringing of burning pain, as I swing around fast side to side.
You spin for another blow with your eyes closed this time.
You miss.
You do it again, eyes open.
Pain explodes faster everywhere.
I’m muffling praying to fall any second now.
“COME ON YOU’RE GREEEDY YOU KNOW THAT?!!” He shouts jumping from below.
“OPEN UP!! GIVE ME SOME!!! I GAVE YOU EVERYTHING AND YOU DON’T SHARE??”
Tears are falling. I’m the one at fault. I’m the empath and you’ll do anything to make me feel this way, no matter what I do, it won’t be enough.
You overfed me and I ate so it was my fault.
You tried getting it all back but couldn’t expel it out of me so it was my fault.
You did your part, and all I did was intervene.
It’s all my fault.
It’s not you.
It’s all me.

He preferred unwashed and touched skins
I was ripe and fresh, with my green leaf
Shiny as if someone polished me against their polo shirt.

He loved texture, bruises, and discoloration
while I was smooth, absolutely bump free.

No patience left in him, he needed to gorge his hunger,
biting down and ripping it's other half trailed with a string of dripping saliva.

It wasn't a want, but a must.

Worms were wriggling out from the rotten core begging to escape from his monstrous pointed teeth.

He preferred them just the way they were, abandoned, unsure, insecure.

He however never preferred me; smothering myself of perfection to be picked from all hands who only ever picked the others...

Perfect apples can't always be picked up.

This fiend, he's black
but not in colour.

He tracks: not you
but your brothers' brother.

He wins and jeers
and sits and cheers
and loses and who says
strange words that confuses.

But for all his whim
and dashing trim
he's bound up, wound up,
he's ready for sin.

This skin he bears, drained and cold,
grows thin with wear, and frees his soul.

The Prantercalt lives inside
he's cosy, got a stellar ride,
but anger burning,
envy churning,
these the weapons at his side.
Don't let him out,
he'll run about,
and you'll find your mind'a turnin.

Borderline Personality Disorder...

It's this thing that lurks in the shadows, a feeling that doesn't quite always manifest the same way.

BPD...the silent killer.....or maybe that's what all diseases are. I'm not so sure.

What I do know is that I never expected to make it past 18 much less to 23. What I do know is that BPD has a mortality rate of 8-10%. What I do know is that I'm scared.

Scared that one day the hidden thoughts of my mind, those things we like to keep in a box, will soon find their way to the frontal lobe of my brain and send my consciousness soaring.

Scared that one day I'll finally get tired. Then, I'll get tired of feeling tired and then I won't be tired at all anymore.

Scared of my ability to hurt others even more than I hurt myself.

What I find to be the sick irony of the whole situation is that BPD manifests solely from immense abuse. You cannot be born with it, the mannerisms are all learned. Therefore, I am now forced to bargain my existence, tiptoeing through memories that should be long forgotten.

Trying to remember what my childhood was like while overcooking my breakfast.

Trying to shower but my brain continues to replay that time she raised her hands to me.

Trying to sleep....but my brain doesn't allow that comfort much anymore because those thoughts find their way into my dreams.

When we struggle, they like to remind us that "we are not alone". Yet when I dream at night, I am the one to close my eyes. When I walk into a restaurant, I am the one that can't sit with my back to the door anymore.

I want to give a special shoutout to everyone who played a role in me obtaining this diagnosis. If it weren't for your years of abuse, I wouldn't be living through the single most wonderful years of my life.

Without you, I'd be free and freedom from ourselves is much easier said than done.

The biggest shall protect the small
That’s how the doll’s life goes
Lies that cover up the truth
So weakness does not show
And even if you think you know
What really lies within
Another face laughs mockingly
In secret with a grin
Each one is different, yet the same
With layers stripped and worn
Who can tell what’s real from fake
With this ever changing form?
I realise now, they are not masks
Nor lies or false facades
Instead they are a spirit, whole
Made up of different parts