prose

an old friend

TRIGGER WARNING: Please be advised that this post contains thoughts on self-harm and suicidal ideation.

Last night, I tried to hurt myself. I was the epitome of composure and calmness and then, suddenly, I was not. Blurry vision. Stifled, choked mind. Emotions violently erupted. I was an embodiment of what seemed to be self-inflicted lies, of perpetual confusion, of self-blame, of self-loathing. But what stood out in the forefront of this raging storm was pain. Raw, numbing pain. Pain that I couldn’t physically feel. Pain that was there but would never show on my skin. Pain that would be etched in the crevices of my mind.

I pleaded for help. I didn’t know what I was doing. I was stumbling around in frigid darkness, my hands pressed forcefully to my temples. As if I could push it out out my mind. Shaky, shallow breaths. Blurry vision with no end to the tears. Tears which no longer felt like a release of the agony I was feeling. I was always crying and now I was getting sick of myself for crying so much.

‘I’m having bad thoughts…’

I remembered a knife. I find my way to the countertop, grab the drawer’s knob, and open it. It slides out quietly, swiftly. I plunge my hand in to feel around its contents, where I know I will find a feeling sharp and cold. Like myself. The first knife is a butter knife and it does me no good. I run my finger on the serrated edge as if to test its authenticity. I steady myself on the countertop, sobbing uncontrollably. My thoughts are not my own. I feel your presence behind me, watching me but not touching. I stumble back to the drawer.

I pull out a second knife. I know its black handle too well. I remember cutting into birthday steaks, Thanksgiving turkeys, Christmas hams. It reminds me of an old friend. Just as quickly as I realize this, you are holding my arms firmly, pulling it away from me. You are forcing me up the stairs. I trip over my feet, sobbing, screaming out at the injustice of it all. I am at the side of the bed now, and you are pushing me to sit down. I sit down and then you are pushing me to lay down. I am still not in control of my thoughts. You turn on the light and you come back to sit on the bed. You are never completely close to me, but you are there. You head into the bathroom and come back. You place a pack of floss on the bed by my side. I glare at it, hurling vicious attacks at it, thinking of disappointment, of self-blame, of abandonment, of death.

Yet, somehow, I go through the motions. I don’t know why I need to do it, but I have flossed my teeth, brushed my teeth, washed my face, combed my hair, changed into my pajamas. You are on the bed sitting, watching, pensive, quiet. I get under the covers and you pull yourself over to your side of the bed and lay there for a while. I am numb.  Eventually, you get up from the bed, but you don’t say a single word. You head to the bathroom to grab some toiletries, head over to your desk to check for other necessities, and then you turn off the light as you leave the bedroom and close the door behind you.

I am laying in darkness. And the whole time, I have a lingering question in my mind: when did I start to see a knife as my friend?

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Standard
prose

strangers

I am sleeping in an unfamiliar bed. Far from you. I wonder if you think about me. Do you miss me struggling to tiptoe and kiss your cheek? Does your heart ache when you toss and turn late at night and realize that my side of the bed is cold? Do you remember the gentle good mornings, planting a tender kiss on my forehead as you exaggerated having to wake up with sleepy eyes? Do you chuckle when you are suddenly reminded of a moment where I did something ridiculous and unexpected? Do you feel pained when you notice that I’m not there to share in your laughter and stories? But what I’m really wondering is, do you ever want to talk to me?

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prose

problems

Let me count the baggage I carry with me.

  1. Anxiety that’s been burnt from the core to the skin because of daddy issues (how clichéd!) and now I have abandonment issues (no relationships ever worked out here!)
  2. Depression (but is it really clinical?) that comes up every now and then, having a good ol’ time with anxiety and tempting suicidal thoughts (but please, it’s just a phase!)
  3. Anger issues that still resurface from when I was an angry child (it’s a fancy schmancy defense mechanism that actually backfires!)
  4. Family problems from when I was a child in which my older sister was abused (she was just diagnosed with bipolar II disorder!), my mom divorced twice (she became suicidal after the second marriage failed!), and my ex-stepfather groped me (but I was his favorite child!)

But guess what? If I act now, I might actually get my shit together. You probably won’t be able to accompany me though. I guess I’m just too fucked up for some people.

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prose

stop

I feel conflicted, broken, used, cast away, misledyet somehow I also feel that I brought it on myself. I surely must have done that. I start playing a song which would normally be considered an intense declaration of love but the tears start to flow when they pierce my eardrums. Stop crying. I crank up the volume and allow my ears to die a little in the reverberations coming from the speakers. I croak out some of the lyrics trying as hard as I can to get my mind off of the tears that just won’t stop. Why won’t they stop? 

The room is a complete abyss, pitch black and empty, and I know that I am alone save for the company of a goddamn love song. Tears continue to leak out from the corners of my eyes as I gaze up at what should have been the off white ceiling, now inked black in the artificial evening light that I have made for myself. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry. Windows partially closed, blinds completely shut.  I tell myself that I want to cry a little while longer because maybe then I won’t have any more tears left. Please just dry out. My heart has too much to say and I am fighting against it. I don’t want to know how hurt I’ve been. I’m not ready for that.

Standard
poetry

Artificial: A Reflection

It steps into view.
A beam of blinding shocking white cuts into it.
It is startled 
for a short second 
     before...
it becomes mesmerized,
     astonished
by what it sees.
It steps closer,
     and closer,
     and—
                much too close now.
But, still, it is captivated.
It looks at a blank mirror face,
an expression it is all too familiar with.
     Clear.
     Plain.
           Marked.
It grimaces.
I don't look like myself—
     Don't lie.
           You don't feel pretty anymore.
Standard
poetry

please

I've been abandoned twice.
                Wait, maybe four times. 
                No, is it five?
                Who's counting anymore?
By you.
You who is cold to the touch,
dismissive of any warmth in your heart.
                You must shiver at night
                living in a frozen snow globe,
                feigning a genuine smile.
I should know better than to
feel something for you
but I always do.
In some twisted,
wicked sense of humor
it's always so that I can 
keep you
by my side.
                That's where you belong,
                and my throat is choking up.
But you don't want to
be there.
Years later,
I'm still trying.
                I'm so sure I can make you
                remember that you love me.
                Don't you want to remember?
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