she is a mess

She doesn’t feel much most of the time. Mostly confusion, if she had to name it. Anxious confusion, happy confusion (there’s not much of that), sad confusion…it’s all just confusion. Because see, when she was younger, quite a few years younger when she should have been carefree and happy go lucky, she taught herself to hate the world and herself with it. She taught herself to tamp down her happiness whenever it came, to ignore it in favour of focusing on all her failures and short comings, to be overly modest with a fast crumbling self esteem. She doesn’t know why she did it, now, but she just knows that she did. Maybe she wanted to be stronger. Her own screwed up way to deal with the overwhelming disappointment of failure.

 

She thinks it might be because she realized how much she never fit in, how much she’s unliked. She thinks she might have done it to make herself not care about what other people thought about her. Made herself purposely indifferent to the comings and goings of other people, hardened her shell, became meaner, crueler, so she would be able to protect herself. It’s backfired spectacularly, but the damage is done.

 

She’s a fucking mess. She has so many trust issues, her self esteem that was never the best is now worse than ever and she doesn’t think she will ever stop doubting herself. She doesn’t see herself as capable and she’s scared of the world. How will she ever make friends and boyfriends if she can’t trust anyone, not even her family? Especially not her family, old fashioned as they are, they wouldn’t understand her fears. They wouldn’t deal with it in a suitable way either, only make her feel worse, like there was something wrong with her.

 

And maybe there is, she’s not sure. She hopes there might be something physically wrong, hormones or some shit, some mental disorder that she can blame. Or rather, just somewhere to start in order to find a way to heal. She just wants to know that it’s not her fault she’s like this (eve though it is) and that it’s not just her faulty personality. Not just because she’s too sensitive or something.

 

She might be though. She’s everything she hates (or she hates everything she is). She’s not sure which, but in the end, it doesn’t matter much.

 

When she ranks the people she sees around her, she only ever puts a few below her on her scale. Everyone else is lifted high above her, so far up that she can never reach them, on the ground, staring up at the starry figures they make.

 

Sometimes, it’s not confusion. It’s a subtler feeling that she can’t name. it comes a bit close to despair, if she analyzes it enough. But not there yet. Just an inherent feeling that something is wrong, that there’s something wrong with her. She just can’t tell what it is.

 

And so she’s just so scared, of herself, of the world, of being disliked.

 

That’s her greatest fear, of being disliked, and it comes true every single day, every single night.

 

She feels hopeless, like she doesn’t deserve anything at all. she doesn’t deserve happiness, she’s not worthy of it. she can’t think of a concrete reason why, but it’s a feeling that doesn’t ever leave her nowadays. She’s not worthy, no one likes her, she should just disappear and die and everyone would be so happy that she’s gone.

 

She’s a fucking mess, she feels like an ugly, brittle thing that broke apart into hundreds of little pieces, all sharp edges and murky glass, and she’s not beautiful at all, even when she wasn’t so broken, and she’s been taped and glued together haphazardly, pieces bound tight and out of place with duct tape made of sarcasm and disdain and hatred and despair, and it’s an evil miasmic ward that stops people from looking too close at her jagged edges and dark chasm cracks.

 

She feels like the slightest touch would break her apart again. So she holds herself away, isolates herself from everyone she meets, and tries to convince herself that being lonely isn’t so bad after all.

 

She doesn’t do a very good job of it. But what else can she do?

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She is a girl who hurts inside.

She’s thin air.

She’s a wisp of a spirit tied to a rotting shell of a body.

She’s nothing.

She’s glass.

She’s made of Prince Rupert drops that have been shattered a million times but still try to hold their shape.

She’s delicate.

She’s darkness.

She’s a black hole of negativity, slowing growing larger with every sadness despair loneliness that she absorbs, slowly coming closer to her own collapse.

She’s self destructive.

She’s fear.

She’s made of it, made of little wisps of worry and anxiety, nothing else in her skeleton but grief and terror.

She’s so scared.

She’s a time bomb.

She’s ticking towards zero, rewinding herself when she can, but sometimes (all the time) she doesn’t want to.

She’s ready to burst.

She’s agony.

She’s pain and nothing else, all her sensors and neurons geared to only feel the sharpdullsearing ache in her heart and soul and body

She’s suffering.

She is a girl who hurts inside.

She thinks that no one cares about her and that she doesn’t deserve to live another day, another hour, another minute another second another blink—

She’s scared to die. But sometimes, she thinks she’s even more scared to live.

Us

If you’ll be you,

Then I’ll be me,

And we could be,

The us that will never be.

  

If we paint daffodils red like roses,

Will that be enough,

To pretend?

The us that I wish would be.

  

If music be the food of love,

I would play my flute,

‘till the breath escapes my soul

Would you listen to us?

  

I can wax poetic,

If that’s your taste.

Do you see?

The us, will we ever be?

  

You’re you,

And I’m me,

Could we ever be?

The us that will ever be.

Because it hurts

Because it hurts,

When your dreams come crashing down around you in little ghost shards of reality,

That pierce your skin like needles so sharp you don’t see the wound,

But so blunt that the pain doesn’t ever go away,

And so deep that it remains ingrained In your soul.


 

Because it hurts,

To know you’ve let yourself down, to know you’ve let others down,

To know that you’re hanging by your last thread that has frayed down to the last fibre,

That last fibre that is worn down to the last molecule

That can only take so much before it breaks.


 

Because it hurts,

To know that you’re not good enough, you’re not smart enough

To reach that little utopia that’s always hanging above your head,

Just millimetres in front of your nose, yet miles and miles away from your outstretched hands,

Just so close, yet so far.


 

Because it hurts,

When you’re future has disappeared, and the fog of uncertainty spreads,

Like a virus that consumes your mind and eats away at your hope until there’s nothing left,

Until you’ve forgotten what it feels like to see futures in dreams, to hold hope in your heart,

Until you’re all empty and dead.


 

Because it hurts.


 

Hello and Goodbye

Hello,

Hello, hello, hello.

I’m so tired of this world.

So tired of the people on it,

So tired of the evil in it,

So tired, so tired, so tired.

 

Hello,

Hello, hello, hello.

I’m so tired of this life.

So tired of the weary wake,

So tired that the body quakes,

So tired, so tired, so tired.

 

Goodbye,

Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.

I’m so tired of this lie.

So tired of the fake mask faces,

So tired of the tear track traces,

So tired, so tired, so tired.

 

Goodbye,

I’m tired, so goodbye.

I’m leaving now,

I’ll close my eyes,

To an eternal sleep,

What’s inside me dies.

So goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.

I want…

I want someone to look at me with all my horrible flaws and say that it’s alright, I’ll always love you. I want someone to see all the hurt in my mind, in my heart and say it’s alright, I’ll take care of you. I want someone to listen to me, whether they understand or not, and then hug me and say they’ll always be there for me. I don’t want to suffer alone anymore, collapsed against the side of my bed, crying in irregular intervals as I try to breath through my congested nose and then crying even more because of how pitiful I seem. I don’t want to keep it all bottled up until I ruin the milk-white skin of my arms and maybe my legs because it’s been kept inside that tiny, fragile bottle for too long and that bottle finally grew too heavy and dropped and broke. I don’t want a Pandora’s box inside, destroying me little by little, until I’m completely ruined and broken and I’ve shattered into a zillion little grimy glass shards that no one could or would ever want to touch.

 

I want a lot of things, but the ones that I really, truly want, I won’t ever get……..

Tick Tock

This is something I wrote in response to this prompt. Hope you enjoy it.

tick tock

When I’m out with my closest friends, just a few of us, when I’m with the people who I can be myself, I don’t want that moment to end. That moment. The picture perfect moment when we’re all smiling and laughing at a subtle joke one of us has made, and our genuine grins stretch wide across our faces and the sound of laughter tinkles in the air like Christmas bells; I don’t want it to end. I don’t want to stop smiling, I don’t want to stop laughing, I don’t want to go home and reminiscence in the memory that will one day fade and nothing but a vague blur of colours and the impression of smiles will remain. I don’t want to move on to the next day and relinquish my happiness to the cold frontiers of mere aquaintences at school, where I can’t smile forar of showing ugly teeth, or laugh for fear of sounding disgusting, or voice out a sarcastic joke that every so often passes through my mind for fear of not being heard and feeling like the idiot that I fear I am.

tick tock

So I can only watch helplessly as the seconds tick into minutes, and minutes tock into hours, and hours merge to form the completion of the day that I never wanted to end.

Empty

Sometimes, I just feel so empty. I feel like there’s nothing in this world that could make me feel something again. I can’t feel sorrow, or joy, or excitement. It’s like I’m dead. It’s like I’ve become a zombie, but I’m still breathing and I still eat human food and my heart is still beating and my brain is still functioning, but I just can’t feel. I can feel pain well enough, which is funny, because even though that’s really the only thing I can feel, I don’t feel the motivation to hurt myself. So I just feel empty. Like there’s a hole inside me and anything that might cause a reaction just gets sucked in. It’s like a black hole, like the ones you find in outer space. The ones that when something goes in, it never comes back out again and it’s bottomless and nobody knows what happens inside it.

 

When I feel dead, I can’t sense the time. It goes so fast, yet goes so slow, and nothing ever seems to happen. Everything feels monotonous. I used to see in colours. Vivid colours that paint my feelings into events and I remember them in those colours. Except now, I see in greys and blackws and sometimes white. Everything’s grey and black and white. No, not even black and white; just grey. Just plain, colourless grey like the flesh of those zombies that I resemble. Fitting, huh? But I just wish I could feel again…

Hearts on Sleeves

What would it be like if our hearts were worn on our sleeves for all to see? Would the heartbreakers be sorry or just take advantage of the fact that they can see and relish in the pain they cause when they shatter a heart into a thousand tiny fragments whose sharp edges make it hard for anyone to pick up the pieces and fix it? Would we think before we spoke, or still let the hearts bleed when our words sharp like jagged-edged knifes slash at the raw, tender flesh? Would stick and stones still break our bones, but words cut the rest of us up? Would love be found, or lost; betrayed, or revealed and shunned when no one wants it to exist? Would we try to hide the bleeding cuts and stitch them up with amateur sutures that that leave nasty infections that are hard to heal, and lifelong scars if they ever heal at all? Would we try to freeze the heart that feels to easily, hurts too much, and has no shield but paper-thin skin and muscle against the barrage of emotions like machine-gun fire that it faces in the battle of life? Or would we burn it, because the physical pain is better still than the dull heartache that slowly drives us insane? Would we try to heal another heart’s cuts and bruises and try to hold it together with trembling fingers that fear the possibility of crushing what it holds, or would jealousy rule us and have us smash another heart just so we aren’t suffering alone? If we wore our hearts on our sleeves, would the knowledge and sight of the effects of our actions stop us in the tracks of hurting someone else? …or would it only have us lead ourselves to our own demise? 

Hello World

Hello world,

        Do you see me?

        Or am I just another tree in the forest?

Hello world,

        Do you hear me?

        Or am I just another sound in the cacophony of noises?