national poetry day was yesterday and nothing came to me until now:

i'm afraid i'm getting depressed again,
school is taking up all of my time, 
i unfollowed you on twitter because you're doing what i started three years ago and you're getting recognition for it and it's easy for you and IT'S NOT FAIR 
it's hard falling asleep,
it's hard not to be afraid of your hands reaching where they shouldn't go,
i don't know what's going on in my head right now,
nothing is making sense, 
i think i'm a lot more foolish than i want to believe,
and i am ashamed of that
everything is hard
when you've convinced yourself that nothing is wrong
so well 
that you forget all about it when you wake up in the morning. 


a car, a torch, a death.

dots on the leg
Sometimes I remember, angry now, about how empty I was then. How much ugly I held. How I wrenched myself into a mold I wanted desperately to fit me. You never know what horror is until you've metabolized the feeling of screaming, mouth wide, but nothing comes out because you can't, you can't. It has been four hundred days, fifty two minutes, and thirty six seconds since the day I decided I couldn't try anymore, but Jo, please tell me why I still see his face. Tell me why I can't forgive myself for abandoning and abuser. I know the psychology, I've done it. But the thing is, despite knowing it like the inside of my own palm, I can't stop it. I see it in flashes, panicked, desperate flashes at school when I freeze in every sense of the word, feeling my blood turn so cold it almost sends me screaming. They tell you people often feel sympathy for their abusers, that they would protect them. I wouldn't protect him. But I would let it happen all over again. I'm not strong, Jo; I'm not strong enough. I see a car that looks like his and I duck. I drove past his neighborhood last week. I gripped my thighs so hard they bled. It's stuck. I can't talk myself out. I do better, now, but Jo what if I never heal. What if this is never better. I told you "it doesn't feel like healing, it just feels like hurt" and I don't know how else to say it. How do you verbalize what you can't understand. Because I can't, I don't get it. I have nightmares, sometimes, that I get a call and someone talks to me. I think his mother. She tells me he's dead. She tells me it's my fault. She tells me I created this black hole for myself. She calls me damaged goods for being a molestation survivor, akin to her daughter who almost said it to my face. I cry. I wake up crying. I try to reach for something, anything to snap me into the real world. It doesn't happen much anymore, but sometimes I'm terrified one day that will be the real world.
Eulogy for the Person I No Longer Love:

It is your grave. You dug it for yourself. But for some reason, I have fallen in instead of you. 

we're going to outlaw him. i love you.
-kiss kiss kiss, wrote this in three minutes-
{pea ess: i would quote tøp in the title.}


i don't wanna hide anymore.

"I'm so bad. I'm not religious. I don't think I can be. I'm smart. I have a high iq. I'm doing so badly in school. I'm stuck. Trapped."

i love you. i love you. I love you. I LOVE YOU. you are so incredibly worth it. i love you. i love you. i love you. I SUPER HECKING LOVE YOU AND your worth is not defined by your marks in school. i love you. i love you. je t'aime. i love you. *big hugs and pizza* te amo very much. i love you. I Love you. you are not measured by other people's standards but by God's and i promise hardcore that He loves you. even more than all of us put together. i. love. you. so much. AND. YOU. DESERVE. THE WORLD. REGARDLESS OF WHAT YOU'VE DONE YOU ARE WORTHY. you are forgiven. every single party of you is valuable to me. i love you. love, jocee. 


oh no, set me free.

“I'm afraid of everything. I let fear completely paralyze me. I have isolated myself and hurt myself. I want to be the kind of person who laughs and eats dark chocolate and plays card games with a boy. I self harm, and I'm so afraid to tell anyone. But I want to live-I'm so tired of hiding in the dark. I want to cry and feel and change. I hate staying in this sameness. I am aching to live, even if it means getting hurt again.”
Yesterday, you said tomorrow.

You wake up, swing your legs over the bed. You dig your fists into the mattress and breathe in, out in, before getting up. You shower, dress, eat, whatever your normal routine is. You put your phone in your pocket and your wallet in the other. You look at yourself once more in the mirror before you head for the door. You look good. Things are going to be different this time. You walk toward the door and turn the key in the lock. Once it clicks, you grab the knob and turn to open. But it won't open. Nothing happens. You are stuck. You are stuck.

You panic, not sure what to do at this point. You try relocking and unlocking the door again to no avail. You tug on the knob, coaxing it to do its job. You yank at it with everything you've got, because you want this, you've promised yourself—and it's broken. There it is. A warm, round, brassy door knob sitting in the palm of your hand. This seems unreal. You don't know how to respond. The house is starting to creak around you. Suddenly, the walls are groaning and the staircases are bending out of shape. Everything around you is falling apart, yet the place you stand in remains pure. The house deforms itself completely and still manages to keep you inside. There is no indication that there is a way out. The windows, once rectangular and full of light, have melted, the ends kissing each other without intending to let go. There is no way out.

You fold your arms, making yourself smaller with every second. The interior of the house follows your movement, creeping closer to you until neither of you can move any further. Your knees shake until they go numb, and before you know it, you start losing feeling in your fingers. You feel as though your entire body is being wrapped in a cocoon from the bottom up. A vine of thorns coil around your wrists and numb you to the bone. You go unconscious before the cocoon reaches your neck. You knew this would happen.

There is a period that you don't remember. The blackness has engulfed you to where you can't even recognize it anymore. When the images start fading back in, this is what you hear.

So I head out, down a route I think is heading south,
But I'm not good with directions and I hide behind my mouth, (louder)
I'm a pro at imperfections and I'm best friends with my doubt, (Louder)
And now that my mind's out, and now I hear it clear and loud,
I'm thinking, (LOUDER) "Wow, I probably shoulda stayed inside my house."

You open your eyes and focus in on the ceiling.
Yesterday, you said tomorrow.
But you don't get up.

so. i do this thing where i donate my plasma to people with immune system issues. it's really quite easy. it's like getting your blood drawn at the doctor's. and in order to be able to donate, you have to have good iron levels and have to have drunk lots of water. it was great at first. i was helping people, i was making money, things were good. and then i psyched myself out and made it more complicated than it should've been. i made up reasons why i wouldn't be able to keep my iron or up or stay hydrated. i told myself i couldn't keep up with it or do it. i convinced myself that no matter how hard i tried, i wouldn't make the cut and i wouldn't be able to donate. so i stopped. and now i'm in a situation where i need to go back. but instead, i'm sitting at home. talking to people online. sitting on tumblr, watching youtube videos, watching other people interact. i always overanalyze things to where they're not in my favour in anymore. so i don't go, because the possibility that i do something wrong is too great. looks like we're both best friends with our doubt. but now that our mind's out and now we hear it clear and loud i'm thinking wow, i probably should kick doubt out of my house.

-kiss kiss kiss, you're the judge-
{pea ess: it's funny that i reference twenty one pilots so much when i'm actually going to see walk the moon in concert next. oh well.}
Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...