confined

stifled

deadened

i can no longer flee from the memories

their feelings

the terror

the devestation

the guilt

the rage

the world is burning and so am i

it's been years now

watching you

the chronic cycling between apologies and drowning in drinks

recovering and relapsing

I've learned to not hope

to not think this is the last time

so I wait

I wait for that phone call

that they found you

unresponsive from one too many

poisoned by your mind, with your own hands

I try, I cry, I pray

someone help me

help me help you

save you

what can I do?

Well, I guess, I’ll just pour my mind onto a page. On social media, I’m just a little more polished, a little more clean. A little more sane. However, in reality, I’m a mess in progress. Constantly thinking, forgetting, feeling. I’m almost always in pain. I guess that’s what the “chronic” in chronic illness stands for—constant, never ceasing, endless. No one really knows. Yes, they know my diagnosis. Ninety percent of them can’t pronounce it or remember it’s name or what it means besides “hurt”. But “hurt” does not encompass me or my illness. I try to advocate. I try to speak out on Twitter with their trending tags but my voice falters. How can I make them understand? I don’t even remember what it’s like to be normal. To not worry about having medication in my bag in case my pain cripples me at work, to carry creams and heating pads and to grit my teeth so I don’t cry in front of my coworkers. To try and walk without a limp when there’s shooting, agonizing pain in one or both of my legs for no reason besides I walked too much, too far, and it’s too cold. It’s been over a decade. This is who I am. They don’t understand me and I don’t understand them. I’m so desperate for someone to know my insides not my outsides. I put my makeup on perfectly—precisely. I have to look “good”. For myself. For them. For everyone. I like to pretend I’ve accepted myself and my illness and I know what I’m doing with life but I don’t. I just don’t. My mind is still a mess after all these years of beating myself down and building myself back up. I’m just trying my best. And aren’t you, too?

She shook as she took another hit. And another.

And another.

The smoke permeated her lungs, her hair, her breath; every part of her surrounded by a haze of grey.

She was battered, broken. Her clothes torn--along with other parts of her. But she would never tell any other soul of what had caused the rips in the most precious parts of her body.

Never utter the dirt and filth covering her body.

Never speak of the horrors her entire self--heart, body, and soul--had endured for those torturous minutes of sweat and screams.

She pulled on her cigarette, swallowing death as she contemplated it herself. But what good would that do? That would only end her life, not her torment.

Tears rolled down her sunken, red cheeks as she pulled another stick from her pack and lit up.

At least with a cigarette in her mouth she could stop herself from screaming.

My scars are not beautiful

They are jagged white lines decorating my body with disdain

A screaming testimony to the past

When hating myself was easier than breathing

When killing myself was my delusional daydream

When more pain, more blood, more suffering was my relief

These bits and pieces of torn open skin are not a sign of my triumph over mental illness

They are a sign of my weakness

My failure to stay strong against the demons destroying my very soul

I am not proud of these signs of my struggle

I am proud of my smile

My laugh

My heart;

That despite the hauntingly horrible trials I faced

They survived above all else

My scars are not beautiful,

But I am.

She was a spectrum of every gray hue. Neither black, nor white. A mix of everything bleak and bright. A mix of everything dark and light.

She was every dank corner of the mind and every deep, impenetrable piece of the human heart. She was the darkest thoughts of desolation as you stared down at your trembling hands in the face of death.

But she was also every inkling of hope and essence of life; the sweetest melody on a sweaty summer drive, stuck in your head on repeat as you tapped along to the hum of her words.

I watched her struggle.

Struggle to cast away the bleak void growing inside her chest.

I watched as it consumed her.

Devouring everything good--every shining piece of her soul, every bit of her beautiful brain.

I watched.

I watched as the flamboyant farce faded.

And I did nothing as the alcohol and blood flowed.

I watched.

I watched as her grades and her tears slipped.

And I did nothing as she cut her hair and herself.

I watched.

I watched her die a slow death from the inside out.

I did nothing as she hung herself and her soul.

I watched.

If you took a knife to me, ran it down my spine, would you see what's left of me--would you see what's mine?

Would you see the way I dream in colors or the way I see in grays? Or maybe you would see the way I pine for brighter days.

Would you see the flowers blooming in my heart? Or would you only see the rot that grows inside, tearing me apart?

So if you took a knife to me, ran it down my spine, would you see what's left of me--or would you see what's mine?

I'm an hourglass figure with extra minutes,

I am a twig, full of lush leaves,

Rooted into a tree of knowledge;

Knowledge that I am beautiful,

Fallible and flawed,

Full,

Brimming with blubber,

Imperfect but impressive

Smothered in scars and freckles,

And proud.

I am not perfect.

But,

I am worth it.

I am

Enough.