What's your Poison?

I'll tell you mine.

[iced-mocha]

Sorry I didn’t say happy birthday, I wasn’t even sure if I was going to be alive to feel bad for it. To be fair, I really don’t care. But I know you do. So there.

P.S. I really am sorry.

[coffeeandthoughtspoetry]

― Anaïs Nin, The early diary of Anaïs Nin

[iced-mocha]

I could call you. Or text you. Or send you a letter. An email. How about cc your family to ensure you get the fucking messsge?

I reconnected with my old friends. The ones you did a good job of isolating me from. I shared how you recently just left all our things in the storage unit we agreed to share be sold off. Because you stopped making payments. For six months. Right when I was ready to receive all of my things back. And you can go your fucking way and I can go mine.

A week before I asked for everything I pretty much owned. All my memories after I first left home. A week before. That’s when I asked for my things and you spun this whole narrative. Only to find out there was nothing I could do. You stole so much from me before this. And then you stole everything from me.

As much as I could punish myself for it, I’ve already done enough time after finally leaving your bitch ass. You stole memories by coercion, the ones I couldn’t make. And then you took the many opportunities for me to remember memories I did make.

But motherfucker, you’re still sad and alone and forever a victim to your own bloody doing. You’re where you deserve.

I was good to you. I was so good to you. And that’s what you left me with.

Nothing.

But I still have them. You’ll be a fading memory in the nothingness you love to infect everything with.

Eventually reduced to a joke.

A joke. That’s what you always were, weren’t you?

Aren’t you.

[iced-mocha]

Maybe I’ll find a beautiful spot in the woods, somewhere I can decompose peacefully. I can color the green with red and return to where I should’ve never left.

[iced-mocha]

I wrote a poem titled “If I Died Tomorrow.” It was a response to a mental thought, “would I tell my loved ones if I knew?” And it sparked the understanding that even if I did tell them, the person they knew would die without being known. Truly known. So no, I wouldn’t tell them. I’ll leave my poems and writing as forever reminders that they can go fuck themselves.

[iced-mocha]

I’m unsure why I’ve never adopted an alias and just posted my writing somewhere. Just be someone else, write whatever, and if it goes bad no one has to know.

[iced-mocha]

[iced-mocha]

[trailerparkdream]

[aidashakur]

What isn’t meant for you will keep disappointing you until you finally let it go.

[iced-mocha]

To you, being a victim meant being right. I wish I saw that sooner.

[mournfulroses]

Anne Sexton, from a poem titled "Loving The Killer," featured in The Complete Poems of Anne Sexton

[iced-mocha]

I've gotten too comfortable with the acceptance of killing myself. It's never a good time, and I'm deluding myself into thinking that it's because I don't want to hurt anyone. That's not even stopping me anymore, and I wish I realized sooner that they don't matter as much as I thought they did. It only took understanding who I am to them, and seeing how fuckin thirsty they always leave me.

Now, I just want to write the most hurtful things to all of them. Why? Because I want to return what it's done to me. It's only fair. They'll never see me again. And I wouldn't see them.

Why, yes. I will get the last word. Cause Fuck You.

[asvpfrenchy]

I have no desire to be seen often. I prefer to be paid, hard to reach, and out of sight

[syrenki]

i feel like something inside me has gone moldy

[primulaceas]

John Steinbeck, East of Eden

[commonzinnia]

death isnt enough. i need to never have existed