“I said bye” and Triggered

“I said bye”

And I wan’t to write something happy, but every time I try it feels a sad melody is within the words. A lingering, you should write that happy down, seems like a memory replaying in my chest, but my eyes will never be able to see it. A memory unknown like the idea of being trapped by freedom. And the thoughts of what it should be like and what it could be like if I weren’t this way. The air filled with the scent of nothing, and depression wraps around me. I live in my bubble of me as I explore the world and by the world I mean the mall or out to dinner rarely, upstairs mostly, and my bed always. The amount to explore in my bed in my room which is all bed and distraction if I can get to it. If I can focus on it or even press the button. Self analyzing my feelings and recording them in words that don’t always make much sense. This feeling of empty has been weighing down on me and the only person strong enough to lift it is gone. And it’s only gone for about a week, but it takes me seconds to trigger and hours to stable. I can panic for 20 minutes at a time apparently,  but depression knows how to hold my body for days. He does not need rest. He drains my life force. I am his feast, he is nature devouring my body while I am trapped in hibernation. About a week that’s many days to die.

Cotton Candy Conformity (lyric poem)

Let me be your cotton candy dream.

Sweetest taste between you teeth.

Let me be your cotton candy queen.

That pink royalty.

And I can be your cotton candy king.

Less labels so there’s more I can be.

Why can’t I just be a cotton candy treat?

Mixin’ pink and blue, that’s so sweet.

Fuck cotton candy conformity.

This is who I was born to be.

Ink Stained Metaphors

Simple words cannot articulate these anything but simple thoughts. SO to understand me put on your thinking caps and pull out your microscope as you dive into my riddles and metaphors that wash out of me in the way black ink spreads and spills from a shattered pen. You can dress it up in ball point, stainless steel, or even be as extra as using a feather pen. You can change the ink to whatever color, and even add a scent or some glitter. But at the end of it all it still flows the same way, chaotic and ruining everything in it’s path once it’s free. Once the tame pin point no longer provides perfect marks when pressed on paper, it proves to be pointless. Uncontrollable. Covering all your notes and markings which you’ve made to solve my metaphors. Wipe up the ink, grab a new piece of paper, and we start again with an inevitability of another mess.

A Day of Thoughts

First day of college finals ever.

I just wanted to say I am sorry.

He tucked me in at night and when I awoke he was there waiting for me. The thoughts come flooding to remind me that I am relapsing. And I keep wanting to apologize to my love, but at what point do apologizes become invalid. At what point do I stop using my illness as an excuse and just realize that deep down I just really am a terrible person? “and I bet you said sorry” as if this word stays on repeat. Each time I feel guilty for allowing myself to break over and over again. This time I shatter further and I keep telling myself I will be okay, but part of me won’t believe that. The same part which reminds me that I am not capable of love, so I defend myself with my illnesses. But at what point do I face the reality that this is all my mind, this is all me, and at the end of the day it is me that hurts people and myself.  I am the reason my baby is sad. And for what? So that he will hurt? So that he will leave? So that I can see my true self? None of which makes sense; I know.

I am just an awful person and I feel bad that I hurt everyone that gets close. That I can’t escape myself because I am too weak. I am too weak to be better for him. Too weak to be happy because God damn does it take strength to be happy in life. Too weak to love myself and convince myself that the thoughts are wrong. And I just don’t know what to believe, I can’t decipher lie from truth. The same way I don’t know when I “overreact” to small things because of how my brain works. But I can’t tell if that’s an excuse I’m making to allow myself to not see how awful I really am.

Confessions of a BPD

“What’s wrong with you?” and an endless supply of answers flow through my mind this way and that way. The vision of chaos. I can’t see. There is too much going on. I forget how to stand, to balance, so I drop to the floor before I collapse. This is probably the easiest question for me to answer, but ask me about love and my mind will remain hollow. An empty space filled with silent echoes and darkness. The only way I even know what love is through the fact that sometimes I don’t cut because I don’t want to hurt you. Even in the moment where my BPD tells me I need to punish you for making me feel sad. The answer to why I self-harm always screaming at me. And when I hear it, the realization of the fact of this illusion of control is made. The truth fucking      hurts. Even as I am about to write my secrets on paper I scream at myself no. But here it is. I cut myself to “control” myself and to punish. I use my own body to hurt myself for being so fucked up and out of control. I use my body to hurt the love of my life. I sometime cut because I know it will hurt him and this is one of the many reasons why I want to kill myself. What kind of sick person would use self-harm in that way? As a fucking punishment. A new scar on my thigh when I can’t control myself enough or think rationally. My lack of control resulting in an illusion, a lie to myself, and a disgusting form of punishment. Damn I’m so fucked up. I should kill myself and not as a punishment, but to protect people from this shit.

When He Said “How are you?”

“How are you?”

Keep it in and everything will be okay. Just keep it in. Just breathe. Breathe! Just fucking  breathe; you are so incapable of anything, my God! Breathe. Keep it in. Stop shaking. You need to stop shaking. Stop shaking right now. I’m so sorry that I am… shh stop keep it in. Pretend it’s not there. I can’t; this is… stop. Stop breaking down. You don’t matter. You don’t get to break down. You need to be okay. Be okay. Keep it in. Bottle it up. I can’t. You have to. I hate myself. No one cares, now shut up. No thoughts, no feeling, no anything, just be okay. Okay?

“I’m okay. How are you?”

The Air

And tonight my eyes don’t shine brighter than the taste of the last smile I felt on your lips. My heart remains silent in the house in my chest because the feeling in the air told me not to call it a home. Even when decorated in the way I add textures to my skin it doesn’t speak to me. Just like how I don’t speak to you or anyone as a matter of fact. My journal now as simplistic as writing my thoughts in your eyes so now I don’t write in it. Afraid that you may one day get a papercut. So my words hideaway in a place that only my soul can touch. And I can’t tell if you feel it to. The air is what I’m talking about. Thick, the vapor from my short story, a vapor that I crave to swallow whole. Every atom so there are no casualties, none, after all you can’t kill something that isn’t alive.

Scratch to be here

Preventing the attack or just taking it in smaller increments? Scratch my skin to remind myself I am here. Whether it’s a blessing or just the simple idea of being stuck. I am here. Scratch my skin to remind myself that I am human, that I can feel pain, and that I am here. Thinking thinking think bad thoughts just don’t stop. Bad thoughts are so loud screaming singing in my head. So I must turn up the sound of silence on full blast to cover them up. Thinking thinking think I am here I am still here. Positive thoughts smothered but still here. Always here hidden under it all. Hidden under the silence under the bad. Scratch my skin to feel in control to get a grip to calm myself so that I can search. Search for what little sanity is left hidden within my repetitively crazy actions and thoughts. Dive deep and feel the shaking until your body grows tired. Deep into the trauma until you can find a bright thought. A bright memory dampened by the wet darkness sticking to everything. Dry off your thought with your tear soaked shirt and pray that it’s supersaturation will be kind to you. Holding more moisture more bad than it should in order for hope to be found once again. In order for the preshocks to be the only shocks. Your thought gleaming the way it never has. Unstuck. Scratch my skin I am here. So is the pain. So is the bad. So is the silence. And so is the good. Here still here. Always here.

Liquid Love

And like water leaving the pond your presence evaporated from my sight. When I reached into our glass the liquids felt warm. The fill here line no longer being caressed by our fullness. For a part of you has vanished from the eyes and now the line looks of a marking of incomplete. But anyone who knows the laws of matter understands that loss is impossible. And although I cannot see you, you are here. In an almost weightless form you linger within our glass and I feel your slight pressure weighing down on our water to remind me that you’re never leaving me. A slight touch, less than the preferred hold, but always more than non-existence. I wait for you to cool and join me fully again in our glass. As we join together we surpass the fill here line, with more to us than ever before. And anyone who knows of the conservation of matter understands that there is no gain. But instead we learned from our state of beings and grasped onto surroundings to learn, to grow, and to fill passed set expectations. With each separation we come back with more of that is already out in the world waiting for someone to grasp onto. Waiting for someone to learn to understand and form into liquid in a glass. Liquid in our glass which is now cooler and condensed like rain drops that have returned home to their pond.