it’s been summer for so long
and i’m becoming the people i used to frown upon
i learned to play guitar on a hot night in july
and sang with tears sticking to my cheeks
i don’t want to be old
i cant make space for something that isn’t there
how do i make space for something that isn’t there
i hear cicadas in the night instead of ringing in my ears
i want to disappear in the sand by the waves
buried like my elders
and they will wash over me like a rebirth
it’s been summer for too long
im hiding empty liquor bottles in my closet
they’re laced with something awful
im so lonely and so afraid and the cicadas do not take me in the ladybugs do not share their leaves the caterpillars only see real change in themselves after it happens
i don’t want to change
i have changed
im changing again
the realization that i have an impact on other people’s lives is hitting me like a freight train and i’m tearing up in this fucking jeep wrangler i don’t know how to not be sad and it’s going to kill me there is so much more to life than wanting it to end i crave dysfunction to an almost unhealthy degree the feeling of being fucked up is almost comforting because i can label it as being human my mother looks at me and sees a dead girl i’m too pale and too tired and i’ve grown too much i’m tracing the orange cracks in my bathtub and wishing for something more what i would give to hear your labored breaths in the night i don’t want to be here i want to eat and listen to music and love and be loved i don’t want to speak i just want to feel it’s picturesque in my mind red tattoos on the backs of my ankles please don’t leave me struggling to open my front door when the streetlights are off i’m comfortable in the wasteland of my head and i don’t want to drag you down with me i don’t want to get better
it’s so late and i can’t sleep when you’re not here i would do anything in the world to be able to hold you for just a second and call you mine in between baited breaths i want to feel how real you are want to tell you how you look like the sun and its forever flare beneath your skin i love the way you love me and it’s intoxicating i want to get drunk on you and keep you in a flask i want you everywhere i can have you want your fingers near my pulse in my mouth around my neck you make me feel more alive than the blood in my veins
i spilled my guts everywhere for you like a shitty game of operation. it’s been thirty minutes and everything smells like rotten flesh. you scrunched your nose in distaste while i was dry heaving on the floor and you stepped over my body like i was merely drunk and dumb. i hear buzzing from the flies and my fingertips are vibrating but i can’t move. i will wait until you come back for me and do it all over again
you lay your heart on the train tracks because the unknown gives you a rush
it beats on the ground like a fish out of water but instead the water is your blood and it isn’t salty but it’s staining and it’s getting everywhere i can’t put pressure on the wound because it’s too late to detonate but i will get my hands bloody i’ll mix the soil and the mud and i will let the tracks leave imprints on my palms if it means i get to hold you once more
i force myself to write because it is the only thing that makes me feel again and i hate the way you knock on my door i hate how you busy your hands when you’re in my presence and i hate the looks of pity you give me i’m not a broken toy and i’m not an abandoned puppy i am your daughter and you dangle that over my head like food and i’m a starving man
I don’t think I can ever be the girl you want me to be. I forgot too easy and love too silently and sometimes I pick at my scabs because it’s better to feel pain than to feel nothing. I don’t tell you when I’m angry even though it’s painted on my face, but I can’t blame you, I’m not one to be remembered. I hope that you shudder when you read a book where the protagonist and I share names and you deserve to feel me when you get goosebumps, like a ghost, I am haunting you, a deity underneath your fingernails.
We met at school. The most predictable and unsurprising response. I knew I’ve never seen her before because I’d remember a face like hers. We locked eyes— by chance, a whim of fate?— and it felt like everything clicked. It made sense. She’s the most beautiful girl I’d ever laid my eyes on. And then she comes to sit by me in Spanish class. She asks me about the assignment we’re supposed to do. I can’t take my eyes off her. She pauses her speech and her focus is on me instead of her paper. It feels like she’s staring into my soul. Raw and laid bare. No one has ever looked at me like that.
my mom never bought a post for the cat to sharpen his claws on so he scratches at the walls like it’s his only chance at escape
The floor is easy to get dirty when you never look down at it. You’re never focused on the floor when you should be. One day, it will reflect back what you feed it, dirt and grime and dust and it’s caked in between the carpet but you are on your bed, a castle, a house built in hurricane prone territory, you are above it, and from up here the specks aren’t that visible. You open your blinds for the first time in three weeks and now it seems as if they glint in the sunlight. These are not diamonds you’re supposed to long for. You don’t end up vacuuming.
i want my music to blast through my speakers and play so loud you can hear it coming from the rooftops coming from my hometown and echoing from the national parks i want my music to give you the buzz that you’ve been searching for your entire life i want you to feel it in your fingertips all the way down to your toes and i want it to spread throughout you like a bad drug i want you to feel like your insides are spewing sunshine like you’ve just killed an angel and i want you to feel the bass like my heartbeat beneath your palm
Do you ever feel irrationally lonely?
I ask, to a blank word document.
Not so much “wallflower at a bustling party” or “muted on a group call” kind of lonely
The kind of lonely that comes with the silence after taking a shower so hot, your feet are still bright pink.
I’ve rehearsed my most common phrases. I’ve got the facial expressions, the inflection of her voice and her nuances for when she’s nervous. I am the understudy for when the Sophie that is “well” doesn’t show up for her performance.
I am Charlie Kelmeckis in the third act of the movie.
When he’s so close to slipping over the edge, and he calls his sister, Nina Dobrev, and she picks up her phone at a pool party (with people) and Charlie is alone (without people) and maybe that’s the difference between life and death.
Who am I without the solace of others?
I am dead.
An Ode to the Worms In My Head
I wash my hands so often that the skin starts to burn.
The hot water is careless enough to not mend the rips it makes. It acts as an untrained dog: I didn’t teach it any better, it simply acts this way. I turned the handle and let the water warm and I didn’t scold it when it hurt me, I just lowered the temperature.
My brain tells me I deserve it.
I don’t know when the last time I felt happiness was.
I breathe recycled air and sleep on dirty sheets. I feel more warmth from the radiation of my computer screen rather than sunlight. When people tell me “I’m proud of you,” it sounds more like “I love you.”
If you hold me, please be careful, I’m fragile.
When I listen to music, it feels like shifting realities. SZA still believes in good days, but I’m not sure I can say the same. Frank Ocean tells me I’ll always have this place to call home. I believe him.
And then it gets worse, and you don’t realize it until you are in it. When suddenly, you’re ghosting your friends and their conversations stack up like playing cards. Your room is a mess, but you never leave your bed. This is an ode to my mental illness. I’m sorry if this is convoluted. I don’t know any different.
The abandoned haunted house inside of my head. There are ghosts still stealing parts of my memory when I need it the most. They guard the serotonin switches and they aren’t too liberal when handing it out. They say it’s to teach me a lesson. I don’t know what class I am in.
But, I know it is one filled with distractions. When you find a new show to melt the numbing in your soul, it feels like a phantom glow throughout your entire body. Or an album to play until the worms in your head tell you to shut up, they make you hate it once you’re out of this state because it reminds you of the bad times.
Little do they know, the bad times never end. They’re just quieter in some moments. A symphony I can’t seem to shut off.
Cognitive Dissonance, after Love
You’re spending the night at your grandmother’s house because your parents are out on a date. Your parents haven’t been on a date in six months. You’re six years old, you don’t know why.
Your grandmother knows all the right things to say when you fall and skim your knee on the concrete. Your scooter is next to you, discarded, and your tears blur your vision so much, her figure looks like the sun.
When she tucks you into bed, the couch is your bed, she glances at the photo of her and your grandfather on the nightstand before getting up. You notice her shifty eyes, you’re observant. Her shoulders sag when she walks out of the living room.
Now picture this:
You’re nine years old. Your grandmother passed a few months ago. Your father couldn’t make it to her funeral.
Both of the seats next to your mother were cold.
A girl slides you a paper in third period, third period English, or it was meant for you, but it didn’t get to you. Now the class is pointing and laughing at you and you don’t know if the burn in your eyes or the burn in your cheeks is worse.
The girl avoids eye contact with you in fourth period Math.
Is love supposed to feel like shame?
Fourteen years old.
A different girl musses up your hair while she kisses you. Her lip gloss leaves sticky marks on your chin. She apologizes, but the gleam in her eyes is her tell. She doesn’t mean it. You don’t mind.
Your mother scoffs when you mention the girl. She tells you that it won’t last. You know she’s projecting, that when you bring up the girl, she thinks of your father, or her father. You don’t believe her.
Weeks later, she’s right.
Love is supposed to feel like shame.
Seventeen years old.
A girl in your calculus class taps you on the shoulder and asks if you have the answers to last night’s homework.
You think you are in love with her.
But then your mother tells you no, and your grandmother tells you no, and you tell yourself no, so you listen.
You give her the homework and there’s a gleam in her eye, but you’ve forgotten about it by the time you’ve turned around.
Twelve years later, you get married to your fourth serious girlfriend. She complains that you’re too closed off, but you can’t afford therapy, so your hushed apologies in the middle of the night after you get irrationally angry will have to do.
You tell her that she’s your greatest love.
She scoffs, and that’s her tell. She doesn’t mean it. You don’t mind.
You both visit your grandmother’s grave every few months. She doesn’t pick out red roses, those are date night flowers, but she picks yellow carnations. Like the sun.
You are six years old again.
[...] Although, mortals cope with this fact for their entire lives. Immortals don’t have that responsibility because they simply will never experience it. Their names won’t be forgotten and their bodies won’t decompose into the ground, because they are one with the universe. Mortals connect with each other on the level that, “I empathize with your fear of nothingness. One day we will both be under this same pressure but no one will be there to save me from it.”
The maggots tear away at rotten skin
Your lifeless body lays upon the bed
You make me want to rip at bones and limbs
Until I realize it’s all in my head
Your funeral was held on a Sunday
Or maybe that’s the day you thought to leave
But Lord wouldn’t rise for you anyway
The irony would make you so naive
Don’t contact for three to five business days
At least until the stages should be done
I’ll wait until my own system decays
So I can say he should have finally won
You’re dead to me and I’m still at the wake
Maybe hoping to fix my damned mistake
i wash my hands so often the skin starts to burn