asininia

[asininia]

doubting;

i'm haunted by the idea that the things you said to me weren't really sincere. that you never thought i was pretty important valued that you never wanted to hug me kiss me spend time with me do you ever wonder about that sometimes? yeah. didn't think so.

#poems;

[asininia]

kaiju blue;

mathematic equations beauty, unparalleled; curled up under my comforter connected by a cord messages passed along by tapping fingers by laughter by rambling voices by holding phones up to screens impressions robot voices; humanlike and not scientist voices; german and not playfully making fun, sincerely showering praise were we just love drunk, and now we're hungover? why do i look at you now and only see a stranger? i used to wish with all my heart that i could turn back the clock that i could press restart back to when i was more beautiful than mathematic equations back to when i promised to hold you forevermore hello, goodbye; t'was nice to know you. how i find myself without you, that... that, i guess i know.

#poems;

[asininia]

dizzy;

fading like i'm low on battery swaying and swooping distant from reality weak, strained all together yet so apart torn asunder yet startlingly whole feels like falling until i touch ground and i'm myself again.

#2am poetry. whoop. #poems;

[asininia]

literally;

there are words in the english language that find themselves abused words whose meanings get all mangled words that are constantly misused and i don't claim to be immune to this it's a common verbal tic inserted into my vocabulary, these things just start to stick but-- no matter what i'm told, no matter the truth of this biz, i'll still claim my heart's literally broken-- because it sure feels like it is.

#poems; #i guess this is king of vent poetry. not really? my heart's not broken by any measure but this felt good to write. #i dunno. i feel clever. notreally.

[asininia]

I really liked that poem you just posted about OCD.

#mattu898

[asininia]

from the desk of someone with OCD;

i feel like i'm getting better; i feel like i'm seeing the truth; i'm getting happier, and my shoulders feel lighter, no longer affected by the troubles of my youth. though i am not bereft of struggle. i am not immune to pain. i still fight against the poisonous thoughts that have rooted themselves in my brain. the thing about my brain is, it's not quite the standard issue; prone to short-circuiting and burning out, wires fraying and electrocuting sensitive tissue. i'm afflicted with one of those buzzwords-- obsessive compulsive disorder, or OCD. mine manifests mainly as something called 'intrusive thoughts', when my mind decides to literally torture me. it doesn't matter if i want them; it doesn't matter how hard i 'try'; i can't force them away or ignore them; and they often make me cry. i liken it to a broken record, scratchy and fuzzy and ever-repeating-- cranking out the same old tune again and again, and i can never put an end to the playing. i can't lift up the needle, i can't just pull the plug, there's no off-switch, it's my brain-- and these thoughts, they look at my struggle and shrug. headaches, a feeling of static, lethargy-- irritable mood; i promise, it's not you that's got me this way-- i'm so sorry if i ever say something crude. i'm a cup overflowing and i often spill over please, don't take it personally. i've got cracks in my chassis, flaws in my wiring, if i upset you while like this, it's never intentionally. but i'm not about making excuses-- i just want you to understand what it's like inside my head so i don't lose you as a friend. author's note: basically wrote this b/c i realized that i can behave in not-so-positive ways when overwhelmed with my intrusive thoughts and i figured an apology was in order-- so this is sort of vent poetry i suppose

#ocd #obsessive compulsive disorder #neurodivergent #poems;

[asininia]

disgusting;

what we had, was more than i ever thought i'd get. what we had, i never thought would turn violent. we were two of a kind in my mind, totally meant for each other. but it seems that you didn't think the same, it seems you were meant for another. and though it hurt at first, though the wound ran deep, though thoughts of you and us plagued me, every night when i went to sleep-- your contentedness disillusioned me, your relief, a smack in the face; i saw the poems you wrote, too, sweetheart-- did you even love me in the first place? that's what your poems say, darling. that's what you poured out into the page. and i'm pretty sure it's my turn now to place myself at center stage. your lies woven like the finest silk your deceit, thick enough to blind me; and you don't know how many times i almost ran back, fell to my knees and told you i was sorry. terrible, am i? that's what you think, is it? funny how it all comes out once i'm not there to hear it. our past conversations splice through my brain, pushing in like sunrays press past curtains. and it kills me inside, it really does-- do you still think me a real person? demonized, torn apart, tossed aside like trash; you threw me out onto the street with words like a kick in the ass. but, despite this, i've grown stronger. i have. you hate me so much? stop looking at my page, then. because your lies sicken me, and so do you-- i can't believe i bought them.

i don't fucking need you anymore. and i won't ever need you again. if you hate me that damn much, then why do you pursue me? you told me to get the hell out of your life, so get the fuck out of mine.

#poems; #negativity cw

[asininia]

numb;

i've perfected the art of not caring i've honed my numbing skills i've learned to push my emotions deep, deep down buried until the silence kills the silence of my zipped-up heart the darkness that consumes behind sticky pieces of sturdy duct tape used to quiet the whispers of my doom crushed,       drowned,             shushed. not even the smallest of sounds allowed to pass through. because, if i'm allowed to feel, i might just break.

#poems;

[asininia]

butterflies;

fear, coupled with relief; contentedness, paired with dread; have i made a wise choice? will i prosper in the days ahead? my heart says one thing, my mind another; and the two wage wars inside my chest about whether or not i'll suffer the butterflies that tickle my ribs whenever you come to mind-- i like them, i want them i want you, i've come to find i feel like i can talk to you yet i've felt that way before felt that way about many people who merely left me sore i hear the dark whispers in my ears: can you really change your fate? or are you just damned to loneliness to this desire you'll never sate? i don't know i don't know but i'm willing to try-- for a heart that never gets used is one that's love will surely die.

#poems;

[asininia]

broken down;

i know i'm needy i know i get sad i know i'm clingy i know i get mad but am i really so rotten that you celebrate my leave? am i really so vile that you're thrilled to be rid of me? how am i supposed to feel? how am i supposed to take this? am i supposed to suck it up, puff out my chest, pretend i don't feel like piss? every time i open myself up, i get broken up a little more inside one day, someone's going to crack me open and see that there's nothing left to find maybe i'm not built for this a little wired wrong maybe i'm riddled with malfunctions an error message that's miles long but as my vocoder crackles as my optics short out and dim i feel like my chances at love are growing more and more slim because who wants a pile of scrap metal, anyway?

#poems;

[asininia]

don't leave;

i don't know how to say this i don't know how to make you see the crushing emotions inside and how they effect me i want to tell you it's not your fault because that simply isn't true but no matter how i might explain all of this, the only person that gets hurt is you i'm not a perfect person dear god, not even a little i have my worries and my baggage my feelings, woven like riddles i'm broken and i need reassurance i need to know you're still there i need to know that i haven't become that one jerk who gets in your hair i'm scared of losing you of everyone, in fact this confidence you see in me? darling, it's all an act i wish that i could convey these things in a way that made more sense instead of just throwing it in your face and making everything so damn tense i know i wear on people like the faded knees of jeans eventually, everything just rips and tears splits right on down the seam so yeah, it's not your fault not a thing you've done to me this is a problem that i've carried for years and years, it seems i love you i love you i love you don't leave

#poems;

[asininia]

night;

in the quiet of the night reality warps feelings d r i f t in the night those you love seem lost amongst the clouds and the smog so far away so far from you unable to help though it's not their fault it's yours it's always yours, whispers the night and the night corrodes and the night corrupts and it makes you its slave 'til morn.

#poems;

[asininia]

what i have is just me;

i don't have a white horse nor shining plate armor but i think that, in my embrace, you'd certainly feel warmer i'm not a superhero nor a superstar but the only place i want to be is exactly where you are under these imperfections, am i not human? i feel as though it shouldn't matter the baggage i drag in a love perfect and simple a love treasured and true a love full and timeless-- that's what i want with you and believe me when i say that i would to anything anything to see that come true

#poems;

[asininia]

oppression;

like a box with no lid like a cage with no key escape seems impossible it presses down gobbles up eats you from the inside out and it only seems to grow stronger and your resolve, weaker the numbers dwindle the mouths that once flung righteous words now sewn tightly shut it's killing us and we must accept it how sad.

#poems;

[asininia]

slipping;

quietly, they sing, to the beating of their heart, as it starts to slow and fade their lifeforce drips from their fingertips like raindrops their will seeps from they heart like blood from a wound and they slip away but they always had been, really

#poems;

[asininia]

false faces;

i wrote this short story a few weeks ago for one of my classes. figured i'd share.

    The market was a wonderful place to buy strange, beautiful things. It was open every Saturday from dawn to dusk, and not once was the selection ever the same week to week—the stalls always carried something different, always circulated goods so that the shoppers could get the most out of their experience. To this young man, it was like a carnival. Colorful lanterns all aglow, strings of lights sparkling like stars and luscious satins running off of their racks like water. He’d lumber from booth to booth, pointing out whatever caught his eye and barking requests to hear the price.     As inquisitive and enraptured as he was, however, he never did buy anything. While all of the products were most beautiful, nothing truly held him fast. That was until the masked man opened up shop, of course.     Near the back of the market, there was a tall, round man with colorful clothing and an even more colorful mask tied about his head. It was green and lined in pearls, which gleamed proudly in the lanternlight. The startling beauty of the piece drew the young man close, and when he saw the rest of the masks the man had to offer, he scrambled close and asked for a price.     “For you, a special deal.” The masked merchant’s voice was low, almost musical. He gave a discounted price if the young man bought more than one, saying he could tell when someone respected his craftsmanship enough to flesh out the proper cash. Excited, he purchased three—a ruby mask covered in dazzling sapphires; a porcelain-colored mask with golden ribbons threaded throughout; and a stunning, sleek silver mask that wrapped about the young man’s face like it was made just for him.     “I would warn you, however,” said the masked merchant, suddenly, as the young man put his prizes away in his satchel. “Do not hide behind false façades for too long, or your true self shall surely disappear.”     The young man scoffed. “You are a silly old man,” he returned curtly, dismissing the other’s warnings as the ramblings of the delirious. “I will be going now.”     The masked merchant’s eyes looked almost sad through the holes of his mask. “Good day.”     For every Saturday proceeding, the young man returned to that stall. Each time, he would purchase a new mask, if not multiple, and each time, the masked merchant would issue his warning. And, naturally, the young man would constantly dismiss him. He was truly enjoying the new masks, treasuring them, wearing them almost ceaselessly. He would trade them out daily as he obtained more, experimenting, figuring out which ones he liked best. Oh, they were all so marvelous—it was hard to pick favorites. Whichever ones he didn’t wear that day, he hung around his home, filling it with color and life. He would host parties, let others come and bask in his impressive collection. Word of the incredible masked gentleman with such amazing parties spread throughout the land.     However, as the collection grew larger…and his greed, desire for more, grew more fervent…the parties became more and more infrequent. Why should I have to share these pieces of art with…anyone? The young man asked himself. They’re mine. All mine. Only I should be able to enjoy them. Right?     Soon, the only time anyone would be able to see the masks would be when the young man wore them to market. He would hole up in his house at all other times, settle amongst this collection, and continue his slow descent into what one could call madness.     The masked merchant, however, continued to sell the young man his masks. The business was good, and he could not turn down such business when he had bills to pay and groceries to purchase. Though he did worry for the young man, for the worsening of his condition. It was a tinge unsettling, and said discomfort with his behavior heightened with each passing Saturday.     Eventually came the day when the masked merchant had to turn the young man away. But not because he did not want to sell the young man more.     “There are no masks left,” the masked merchant informed him, slowly and almost tentatively. “You’ve purchased every design I’ve ever made.”     “What do you mean?” The young man nearly snarled. “I need more.”     The masked merchant shuffled his feet. “You have all of them.”        “There is no way. You must make more!”     “I will have more next Saturday—“     “But I want more now!” He needed more. Immediately. But the masked merchant continued to insist, and the young man continued to rant—they fought for a short while until the guards had to remove the young man from the market.     It was as the young man walked home, hands in his coat pockets, that his frenzy seemed to dawn upon him. He reached up to touch the mask upon his face, to consider it for a moment—and then, with the loosening of ribbon and the crinkle of tissue paper, the mask fell to the ground.     The young man ran back into the market, waving his arms, smiling proudly. “I have seen the light!” He cried, proudly and bombastically. Many civilians looked up to survey him with their eyes.     He approached the grocer. “Look! I have seen the error of my ways! I am a changed man!”     The grocer blinked back at him, his one good eye honing in, confusion swirling in the iris. “Who—Who are you, exactly?”     The young man’s smile faltered. He glanced about, dread suddenly replacing his happiness. “What? Does—no one recall who I am?” In a panic, he asked everyone, anyone, if they knew who he was. All he got were befuddled expressions, grumpy dismissals.     Finally, he ran up to the masked merchant’s booth. “Surely you, of all people, must remember me!”     The masked merchant paused, and then smiled behind his mask.     “Would you like to purchase one of my fine masks, sir?”     The young man fell to his knees and wept.

#stories;