Invisible people
Figment of my imagination
Borrowed in my subconscious
touching and reaching
grabbing and pulling
whispering and fueling
Fear and doubt
Insecurities and pain
Every second
Of every day.

Their whispers
perforates my self-esteem
withers my self-belief
deteriorates my self-image.

My mind feels like a battlefield
A constant fight of not caring
of what they think
or say.

For there are days
When I set my mind
In to prioritizing my moment
passion, purpose, fun, and life
And not care.

But some days
they encroach into my mind
Seep through the cracks
Diffuse between the synapses
firing terror.

Letting me stare once more
at my own abyss.

this world will spin
mankind will buzz
people will die
new eras will begin
our graves wait
pulling us steadily
with the rope of time
some long
some short
some very short
which could be you
so do not live
without this truth
in your mind
and in your
heart

Today is the day
National mental health day
One of the many days I regret

I should speak out
I want to
But my mental illness has me chained
So instead I pull
Pull my way closer
But the chains keep me back

Closer to the truth
Closer to the hesitation

For me, pulling is my release
I read online that the rough ones-
With black bulbs were bad ones
The “wicked witch” ones
So I started

Pulling out my fears,
Doubts,
Insecurities
From my head- one by one

Until I laid there helpless
In a cloud of my mistakes
Somehow seeing all my worries in front of me didn’t make them go away

Instead, I became more aware
More aware of my failures
For the unknown future that lies in store
One by one

October 23, 2016
I kept the receipts
A friend- not a close one, more of those friends of friends
She chose me to tell her story to
She was *****
By a guy we all knew and trusted
A “good guy”
I lent her an ear, or rather a willing text
I thanked her for her bravery
For allowing me to be a small fraction of her story of overcoming
I might be one of twenty she told, or maybe just two

I don’t know. I may never know.
But what she may not know is that night
She became my one
Someone I knew almost nothing about
I told her my story and asked how she told her first

I hoped of getting some of her strength through some sort of Twitter DM telepathy
Alas you can’t gift strength like that
Oh God, I wish you could
I go back and read those messages all the time trying

I read my TimeHop every day
Sometimes for the memories
But more often than not they bring back the nightmares
I do it for the relief
The streak number tick ticking higher
Counting the days that have gone by
Or the hairs I’ve pulled

Tomorrow is National Coming Out Day
Is there a day like this for those who came out to their loved ones about their mental illness?
I will also not be participating.
My mental illness is keeping me from doing so
I am buried deep in my closet, hiding under clothes and forgotten tags
My fingers raking through the carpet
Finding that momentary release
The glorious relief lasting a moment
I run my fingers through the rough fibers searching for more

My family doesn’t know
Or if they do, they don’t want to break our perfect mold
I pull discretely
Around my head, just a receding hairline, no bald patches
Yet

I never get my haircut
At least, by a professional
The last time I went, my stylist said it was new growth
Not my past coming to haunt me.
She pulls at them showing me, calling them baby hairs
How do I tell her that each one represents shame, frustration, guilt
Each one represents one party, one good time with friends I’ve missed
Hiding behind those fears, covered in guilt
Back in my closeted mind

Sometimes, I wonder what would happen if I cut myself open
Would blood run out or the words I meant to say?
When it’s a bad day, I pull at large sections of my hair
Wondering what it would be like to rip it all out in two sections
It makes me cry in pain, but the voices tell me about the sweet relief it may bring
I almost give in

What hurts me the most is noticing the people around me who have it
Does the girl sitting in front of me know
One day she may have to get surgery
To remove the hairball in her stomach from eating at her hair?
I see her run it through her lips, feeling the same texture.

Does the boy, scratching away at his knuckles
Understand what’s underneath his skin?
I wonder what his blood would say
Would it tell my story?
Would it tell ours?

Lately I find myself
wanting to talk about my
trichotillomania.
I think I want to find someone else
that knows what I'm going through.
I have never talked about it
on social media except one time.
And someone thought I had an
STD simply because they were
uninformed.
Embarrassed and ashamed
I quickly deleted it.
I shouldn't be ashamed.
Or embarrassed.
It's relevant. And real.

So, pretty much if you have trich
or just want someone to talk to
about it,
please comment or message me.
I know that isn't what this website is for,
But I feel most comfortable here.
And you can too.

Not like eggs in a frying pan
Prying them shyly as to not burn your breakfast
It's not like
the leaves as their moisture dissipates
as their color fades
Its spine rolling forward, rolling up onto its edges,
Its legs.
It can be something like
The way a dress fits snugger
On your torso, when it looked so wide, laid flat.
The circumference, the girth, of a moment
Underestimated.

But if even water shrinks when frozen
How much smaller is my mind
when my molecules stop moving,
when my motives less inclined?

I'm not stepping back from ledges
I'm not broken, on the mend
I'm just pulling away from the edges
Pulling away again.

He spots his prey in the gloom of the dark,
He approaches teeth showing.
His wits are Sharp like polished fangs,
His thoughts solely on hunger.

She is unaware of his fixated eyes,
As she looks to quench her thirst.
He approaches with caution and mimics,
He sips purely to put her at ease.

He pounces, she is overwhelmed, subdued,
He drags his prey to his den, time to fed.
They pant and moan and cry out,
As they finish their intimate act.

He's full, she's used up, it's done.

you're the perfect beat in the song
together, you're knotted with a perfect memory
you're a could have, should have,
you're a wish and a dream
and to trace my fingertips across your skin
feels like heaven and bliss running through me
head to toe, and sometimes at a breaking point
but I'm not even sure if my words mean anything
because we can spend all night, all day, all year
talking. laughing. fighting.
we can spend forever in ecstasy, thinking it'll never end
I will still have my doubts
because you're a couldn't have, shouldn't have
just a wish and another goodbye