is it never enough
yes, i know
you mean it as a joke
poke fun at me, sure
but you will never
ever know the state of
my mind
how broken i am
how badly i'm affected, that
your joke is why
i cry myself to sleep (three times now)
your joke is why
i force myself not to cry in school (several times today)
your joke is why
i can't say another word (five times)

is my life too easy in your eyes
do i not have enough to deal with
must you add more, maybe
you want to push me, see how
much it takes until i break

oh you have no idea
i'm already dying

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?

It's all my fault.
All of this,
It's all because of me.

I loved you.
I thought you loved me,
But you didn't.

This pool of blood next to me,
is all my fault.
All. My. Fault.

There was a knock on my door.
It was you.
Your blue eyes shined brightly at mine as they always did.

But now, the light is gone.
The shine in your eyes has vanished
And it's all my fault.

I let you in the house,
"Why are you here?" I ask.
You slam the door and lock it.

Nervously I ask,
"What was that for?"
Your eyes were dark.

You gripped my hand tightly,
you lead me into the bedroom,
You shoved me onto the bed.

My head slammed into the headboard;
Hard, but not hard enough.
My head spun.

I vaguely saw you undress,
"What are you doing?" my voice slurred
as you tore off my pants.

I tried to say, "Don't," but I couldn't muster a word.
I put my hands up to stop you
But there was no stopping you.

A moment later, you're on top of me.
You forced my wrists down
And caressed my neck with your lips.

I tried to move
But your grip was too tight.
I could feel your hands leaving behind marks around my wrists.

I tried to tell you to stop.
You were hurting me.
But my voice was gone.

My vision blurred in and out of focus.
You squeeze me tighter as you forced your way in.
I gasped, the pain was unbearable.

I have to do something
The woman in my head showed me a vision that I knew would make you stop.
No, not that. Anything but that.

All I could feel was pain.
All I could see was your blurred face contorting in sync with your body.
All I could hear was a loud ringing in my ears.

"Stop," I whisper.
"Stop it."
"Please."

Your mouth went back to my neck.
You kissed me.
You bit me, hard.

"Get off!" I said loudly.
I had finally found my voice.
"Stop it now."

You didn't stop
The pain didn't stop
With each ****** my head throbbed.

The pain was never ending.
Tears streamed down the sides of my face.
A loud, terrified scream pierced my ear drums.

It took a moment to realize, it was me.
Both sight and sound were suddenly clear.
With an edge to my voice, "I said stop."

I ****** my knee up and hit you.
You loosened your grip on me.
I broke my hand free and sucker punched you in the jaw.

You rolled off of me and I was already on my feet.
I started to run toward the kitchen.
You chased after me.

I found the knife block
And drew the first one I saw.
I turned around, knife in my hand, you stopped dead in your tracks.

"Calm down babe.
Don't get yourself all worked up.
We were just having fun."

"Fun?" I screamed.
"You call that fun?
I'll show you fun!"

Not again,
My eyes rolled back into my head.
She took over.

"You'll pay for this," she hissed.
She had complete control over my voice, my body.
Please know I couldn't stop her.

Don't hurt him
I tell her.
But she doesn't hear me.

She raised my hand that clutches the knife.
"Die you miserable *******," she screamed.
She brought the knife down deep into your chest.

No!
Stop it!
Don't hurt him!

It's too late.

Your body dropped.
You laid there motionless,
Blood pooled all around you.

She released her grip on me.
I gasped for air and
dropped.

I sit here now next to you.
I hug my knees to my chest
and rock back and forth.

"No.
Why?
This can't be real.

You didn't mean it.
You didn't mean it.
You loved me."

I gently touch the marks on my wrists.
I wince.
"You didn't mean it."

This is all my fault.
I should have tried harder to stop it.
She just tried to save me.

She didn't mean it.
She can't help it.
You didn't mean it.

It's my fault you're dead.
I couldn't stop you.
I couldn't stop her.

She is just a part of me.
I needed help.
She was stronger.

You didn't mean it.

Some people will often list the smell of rain among their favorite smells,
but to me it is an awful stench; a reminder of that hellish night.

Some people are made giddy as they watch the dark clouds gather and anticipate the droplets,
but the air of excitement is something I dread; it suffocates me.

Some people watch the cars zoom by and admire that sound of the wet pavement hissing in response, but this noise is associated with a memory that holds me captive; it is a prison to me.

Some people find the smells and sounds of rainfall to be soothing, but I feel as if the world is mourning with me when it rains; a storm played in the background the night my life was shattered.

Some people marvel at the beauty of lights reflected in water, but I cannot admire these things for fear that I might get stuck in my head; my mind might think we're back living that night again.

Some people used to include myself; no longer, but there is not a day that goes by without a prayer that I might one day return to the world's collection of some people.

If you hold the gun to your head, and pull the trigger, who knows if your promise will subside when you die, or will a new pain begin?  
You think they will always remember you, but that will only be until the memory ends, maybe a few days, until the next tragedy.
Who are you to take the attention away from importance at hand, with the pain and the sorrow of our depleting green land?