"you are what you eat" i don’t remember eating a huge disappointment
do you ever get in one of those moods where you’re like feeling okay but you’re really sad at the same time and you just want to talk to someone and make them hug you but you feel annoying so you kind of just sit there being really sad
my talents include being able to sit on the toilet for 30 minutes being distracted by my phone
Anxiety is not rude. Depression is not selfish. Schizophrenia is not wrong. Eating disorders are not a choice. Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder is not crazy. Mental illness isn’t self-centred, anymore than cancer is self-centred. It’s a medical illness.
I take myself too fucking seriously can you imagine that.
I have watched Pride and Prejudice at least ten times this week.
Life is my favorite cereal and least favorite thing on some days,
especially every day of six months ago.
When I hear my friends talk about their depression,
I’ve never felt such agony in my heart for them,
the months I spent keening on a wooden splintered floor
so vivid yet so far away. The knowing of being unreachable,
tunneled into a narrowing and hardening cocoon of nothingness
until it crushes you, there is no metamorphosis
in your family finding you dead and empty on a summer afternoon,
and butterflies are such an awful analogy
that it might kill the person proofreading your manuscript.
When I was diagnosed as bipolar I begged my friends
to come up with their best bipolar jokes on the regular,
because what else do you do?
I could cry about it with large stones in my pockets,
or I could build a shrine for all of my pill bottles
That New Magick.
Crack the egg and I’ll come spilling out, slick and bleeding yolk.
It’s unethical to want me, and the verdict hasn’t been reached
on whether I’ll make you ill or not.
Clavicle made mush, you meant to splinter
but simply smashed it oozing onto your sheets
when you tried to fuck me.
I wish I had fists of giants and black birds to fill your throat
with every bad omen that follows me and traps me
inside of my apartment.
Gray days, rain, my windshield wiper has a tear
and won’t sweep away the droplets making my passenger blind,
I carefully picked up the shards of glass leftover
from my car’s smashed side mirror out of the snow
hoping to cut my hands and make it very clear:
things are broken and I am hurting.