I met a woman in the psych ward and something felt like that should have been me.
She had gauze wrapped around her wrist like I had felt so many times before, but these wounds had kept her here.
I had been sent home.
I never needed stitches, but I couldn't have a needle,
so I was always left with the common thread of being sent home.
I was never taken seriously until one day I was,
but I'd forgotten how to take it any way at all.
The woman in the ward would wander the halls,
hauling her hidden distress in the dressing.
I wondered if she'd also been told 'it wasn't that bad,'
but if she was, she might have been home by now.
Something keeps asking why she hadn't been me.
I was so confused about where they said I should be and didn't know how to prove if I knew where that was.
Dismissed from all urgency by nurses with certainty, but implored by all others who glanced at my wrist;
each party so confident I'd be in hands that were better as long as those hands weren't theirs.
I was scrubbed from this place of belonging while being too stable for the people in scrubs.
Maybe that's why I stay as close as I can to the psych ward while still holding the key card to leave:
I had lingered in limbo too long to know which direction to go. What do I believe? Which loss do I grieve?
I had proved myself too healthy; I had proved myself too sick.
I was a revolving door patient who never got admitted.

I get anxious when I don't have a toothbrush in my purse.
I leave behind the house and the ability to take care of myself if I don't come back.
Every time I get in my car I wonder if it will take me somewhere else that night,
even if I know I'm coming home.
It's different now; I sleep in the same bed most nights and I brush my teeth at the same sink,
but I meet the same eyes that I used to see in different mirrors every day.
I stalled in more restrooms than I could count because every other door was shut.
I learned that Starbucks is better than Tim Hortons; there's a place to put your purse and the water tastes nicer,
and if people see you leaving with a seven-dollar latte they assume you're going to the same place you came from.
I buried my toothbrush at the bottom of my bag.
The baristas would ask about my plans for the day, and if I'd had the words, I might have said, "I'll get back in my car and see where it takes me."
It would have sounded poetic. It might have been enviable,
and I might have felt a little less homeless.
But how dare I say that thankless word--
I was always met with a laugh and a correction: "You'll never be homeless; look at all the places you can go."
And I was grateful, I was grateful, I was grateful,
but they never knew how lost it felt to sleep on different beds and couches and know it was because of how lost you felt.
I was welcomed in every different home except the one I was forced from,
and every different shower I cried in saved me a little bit more.
But everyone was always amused at how prepared I was when I pulled out my purse.
They didn't know it was because I didn't have any other place to keep my toothbrush.

I used to want to be a DJ until I met one.
I used to want to be a DJ until he left my ears ringing with all the things I had done wrong like cymbals in my face.
I used to want to be a DJ because they looked like they were finger painting music on vinyl,
but the one I knew dug knuckles into my tissue-paper chest and called it his job.
I thought a DJ's job was to make art.
I used to want to be a DJ until I learned they etch their fingerprints into your record and forget (refuse?) to wipe them off.
I had his vinyls propped up against my wall. I wanted to rip his name off all of them.
I used to want to be a DJ until I sat in his office listening to the lies he put in his lyrics.
I wanted to find the console and turn the audio down, but instead I looked for him to console me.
I wanted him to sympathize but that too would have been synthesized.
I used to want to be a DJ until I learned they amplify your weaknesses and loop them, loop them, loop them.
I wanted to fade to the background but 'if you ain't redlining, you ain't headlining,'
and I was redlining, I was redlining, I was redlining-
looped and scratched and mixed until I was my very own single,
alone.
my tears the only streaming platform that he could not control.
I used to want to be a DJ until he shut me in my own dead air.
he had other records to make and other albums to fill.
I never did learn what he labeled me.

i know this has been set in the stone of your mind,
but consider otherwise,
for just one moment,
that this could be the most harm you've ever experienced,
and it just may not be your friend at all

i want to be someone who helps.
i want to be someone who hears.
i don't want to be who harms.
i don't want to be one who haunts.
i want to be one with open hands.
i want to be one with open heart

my scars are fading
and i'm afraid
that so will i.

i know myself better than you do,
i've known these scars better than you do.
i've seen pain on these arms far longer.
this scares you because you don't trust me,
but you never needed to tell me that.
i won't ask you to trust me,
but trust the process instead -
there are memories far worse than candles and blades,
and i must see them first
before i can put them away.

my throat is tight
and there are tears dripping
onto the cuts in my arms,
and this is not
how i pictured my twenties

i am trying so hard to talk to you.
i know you want to help,
i know you care,
i know i can trust you.
but i need you to know that it's hard,
and that there are so many things in my head
that are almost impossible to turn into words.
i know i asked you not to give up on me,
and i know i told you to walk away if you choose.
i know i'm putting you through a chaotic string
of ups and downs
and it seems like i can't make up my mind.
but i'm asking you to stay one more time
because i really do need you.

there is a family
laughing together
behind me,
and i
am
destroyed

this is not fair.
this is not fair.
i can't be there.
i can't breathe air.
i can't help bear
the weight she wears.
i want to share.
she knows i care,
but she's aware
i can't be there.
this is not fair
this is not fair

God,
my friend.

my friend is drowning.

my friend's canoe is upside down in a raging current.

my friend is holding on and she needs only you.

God,
my friend.

save her

my love,
the world has given you so much pain.
i can't bear it for you
and it breaks me to watch.
but i will crawl with you
i will stumble with you
i will fight with you
and i will pray with you.
i wouldn't blame you
if you kept your eyes closed the rest of your life,
but i promise with everything in my soul
that if you decide to open them,
i will be the first thing you see

i have lived my whole life with the truth,
whether i remember it or not,
whether it is what they think or not,
whether it was real or not.
and i am still me.
i am still the same person.
i am still the same body
and i am still the same soul

my hand rests on the window of your mind,
watching from the outside.
i will look for as long as you'll have me,
clearing away the fog and fears.
how absolutely fascinating it is

and if i showed them,
which would scare people more-
the bandage or the scar?

what right do i have
to be someone in need of care

name,
class,
professor,
date.

intro.

i believe i am quite burnt out.

conclusion,
bibliography.

where did all my motivation go

the sky was grey and i couldn't feel my body.
my head was heavier than suburban slammed doors,
and the presence of sidewalk strangers
sent trembles of panic through to my core.
my ears are already pierced,
but i winced at high school football whistles
and garbage trucks
and rattling engines
and raised voices.

do you remember the museum?
do you remember burying your head in your dad's shoulder
because the world they warned you about
was too grey for your hazel eyes and golden soul?

don't forget.
it is not a world you have to live in.
you must not find safety in greyness.
there is none for you there

slow down.
slowdownslowdownslowdown.
this world was made for healthier minds than ours.
more stable minds than ours.
more well minds than ours,
and we are breaking under the pace
the pressure
the presence
the outpour.
we can only imagine what we could do
with a little more patience

i am yearning for something
i don't think exists anymore

please don't look at me like that -
i would die before worrying you again

remember when you would stop at nothing
to skip the next meal?
you were hurting so deeply.
an empty stomach did nothing to fix your empty heart.

i romanticize the things that **** me

i think i might be lonely.
but who would i tell
if i realized i was?

my safe place
has become a place i dread.
how can i stand to look
to care for
to be present
with this body i can't seem to bear?

gosh i'm trying, but i hate this.
i feel so uncomfortable in my body.
i don't know if this will ever get easier.

we caught up yesterday,
a simple conversation
with encouragement and laughter.
i thought i'd trip back in love with you.
i thought i would have to ward off pesky feelings
and persistent romance,
but all i felt was pride for how far you've come
and thankfulness
that you had had a place in my life.

i stopped hurting myself
because i was tired of hiding it.

not because i wanted to.

the air is getting colder and i can feel its hold on me.

some hear the wind's whispers and wonder of its language,

but i can hear it clearly,

softly:

you have waited long enough.

you are free now.

i keep forgetting how intensely i love.

i'm terribly sorry -

my affection must have spilled over

in the most unexpected and uncontrollable way possible -

out of my fumbling hands

and into your beautiful heart

they told me these were the best years of my life.

...these are the best?

but why do i have to be small
for them to notice i'm hurting?

dear body,

what is this mismatched mosaic
that you are in the mirror -
this fumbling jumble of flaws,
this frightening medley of faults -
this glitch,
this error,
this defect -

and what is this misplaced magic
that you are to all eyes but mine -
this unrecognized spectator road,
this coveted gift of commonplace -
this ordinary,
this regular,
this neutral -

what are you
when pictured with impartial perspective -
what are you
when glimpsed with glossed-over grace -
what are you
when there is nothing being done to you
besides being noticed?

these thoughts want you dead.

fight them.

my best friend's mother held me so tight
that i wondered how close i could get
to letting myself feel like a daughter

body,
i am so
so
so
sorry

i'm better,
i swear.
i'm better.
because that's all that makes sense to you.
i have to be better
if all the weight that i put myself through hell to lose
is slipping back onto me so quickly.
this is what recovery is supposed to look like,
isn't it?
eating.
gaining weight.
but what is recovery supposed to feel like?
because i can't stop myself from stepping on the scale,
and every time i do,
i want to cry.
(but it's safer to sob myself to sleep at night.)
i can't stop myself from checking every label
and counting every calorie
and exercising out of hatred.
i can't stop myself from taking every tiny ounce of opportunity
for control that i get.
but i'm still eating.
i still gained weight.
that weight that seems to crush my shoulders
and haunt my lungs
more than it ever felt on my body,
because i've always seen myself as heavy.
my body has only ever been associated
with danger
destruction
and a distraction.
my body has only ever been something
to be taken advantage of
and guarded
and feel ashamed for
and commented on
and covered
and cut.
my body has only ever been my enemy.
and i'm not sorry.
i'm effing devastated.

i can hardly believe how much this is consuming me

i don't have to control it.
i don't have to think about it.
my body helps me live my life,
and its relationship with gravity
is the least interesting thing about me.

you really thought someone was going to come save you,

didn't you?

you really thought there could be an easy way out,

didn't you?

if you want this hell to end,

you're going to have to stand up,

work yourself dead,

and save your own **** self.

every year.
every year i stay up until 12:15
on April 7.
the time is burned in my memory
like branding,
etched into my essence
and i can't forget.
four years ago,
it was the moment he was gone.
the river of grief is still these days -
i don't think of his absence
nearly as much as i used to,
and i'm starting to get used to Christmas
without his voice.
i'm starting to get used to life
without his smile.
without his hugs.
without his laughter and his warmth.
but it's 12:15
on April 7
and i would give the world
to have him back.

it's a lovely feeling,
i know.
i know.
i know.
but you can't stay here.
this isn't any way to live.
you can't have a full life feeling empty.
it's so hard,
i know.
i know.
i know.
eat anyway.
live anyway.

you can't do it anymore, can you?
take control.
you have become weaker by the day
and there is nothing left in you
that wants anything badly enough
to work for it.

what a terribly aching heart
i have been given
by a terribly aching world.
what a beautiful thing it would be
to be taken from it.

healthy people don't want to be sick.

if i look so healthy,

why do i try so hard to change that

it doesn't always last,
but when it does-

what a drug