I have told everyone about those strange miss-matched shapes,
That litters my skin,
And tell a tale but I make sure their words are twisted.

No one needs to know the pathetic truth,
The little tale, that repeats back to me, "Your unwell."
That's fine by me; as long as it doesn't come from someone else.

I am still incomplete; still not well enough to look myself in the mirror.
Lacking the focus, to understand that I should be disappointed.

I have tattered the skin upon my body with purple and blue.

This dotted bruising I should feel ashamed of,
But I can never convince myself to stop or be disappointment.

The gently miss-match, unhealthy color to the tone of my skin,
Tells the tale's of my self-hatred and rage,
And all the unwell thoughts that dance around my mind.

Evoke me
Provoke me
But don't ever poke me

Thumping, repetitive

Melodic
Ticker tape parade
No quiet but no silence

Acid house rock
Acid house tabs
Thumping repetitive

I see things, I hear things
Real or not real

I plead you, I need you to bring me back from the brink
Have to drink from the fountain of reality

Being okay is not something you can just achieve overnight, or over a day, or even over a week. It's not something you rush, it's something that takes time, an uncertain length of time.

It would take you on some sort of uncertain journey knowing yourself, like knowing what makes you not okay today, or what makes you feel alright again the next day.

You will really never know when will you be completely okay, that's the truth; but the good thing here is this: you have all the time in world to finally be.

You have all the time for yourself to use it, to take the chance to  finally learn how to say "I'm not okay." at times you're not. Denying the truth to yourself won't help, accepting it and embracing it, would. You have to treasure that downfall moment, everyday; every weekend, in a midst of everything.
You have to do something about it, and what's more to create something from it, of all people; for yourself.

It can be a messy puzzle to fix, it can be a long process to be done with, but remember this:  It's okay to work on being okay, it's okay to find out what would work for you or what would not;

than to fret and work on nothing at all.

My heart's not what it used to be
My heart feels something strange
Something goes and makes it flutter
Not necessarily in a good way

My heart is like a little kid
My heart likes to play around
Something goes and makes it skip and jump
Not a game I like to feel

My heart doesn't like me much
My heart throws temper tantrums
Something goes and makes it close on me
Not very nice to know

But my heart is my heart
It might be a little unwell
But it is mine
And I think I'm getting used to it

Why is it that whenever I am not well

                                                           ­                 I tend to reflect on my life,

                                   How i treat others

It's as if I not only want to get better from the illness

                                                        ­       but need to be better in general.

Is Tahirih today not good enough?    :(

Silly fever, illnesses are for mortals, so why you trouble me so?

It's not surprising that it was so easy for you to leave someone as ****** up as I am
Because my mind is a sea of monsters too dark and too primeval to ever be tamed
And they hide their faces in the day
But in the night my mind plays ***** dark tricks and I scream and thrash and I can understand how hard that would be on someone like you
Someone who defeated the darkness that used to terrorize them, and now lives as the king of their mind.
You were ****** up too once.
You woke up cold and sweaty with a screaming heart because your daddy left and you couldn't figure out why and you took six painkillers before Spanish one day and walked in high as **** and got expelled.
But nobody would guess that from your cookie cutter ties and polished shoes and phenomenal ******* eye contact when you shake a man's hand,
Nobody could ever imagine that when you got too drunk you'd grab my *** and throw me on the kitchen counter and bite my neck and your hands would explore places they shouldn't.
Because you hid yourself from the crowds and the daylight and the church congregation,
And when you stand behind me in line for communion I can hear your breathing and the hairs on my back stand up, but remember, my dear, when your nails would map lines down my back?
Oh **** am I ****** up.
And I warned you from the start that I was, that messing with me would only ***** up my broken mind again and again, my mind that's held together with yards of duck tape and the piece of gum we shared on our third date so your parents couldn't smell the whiskey on our breath.
I told you I was a mess, and you said you understood, but the minute my mind started to unravel in your lap you ran away as fast as you could.
I get it.