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why couldn’t it just be a bag of tshirts to me

[place0fperfecti0n]

so my therapist has been telling me to write again and to share that writing again how i used to. so i decided to record some of my poems and post them here. old and new. so here’s the spam.

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i still think of you often

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i spent the majority of my childhood being told i was wrong. being made small. being insignificant. and i have spent the majority of my adulthood so far apologizing. apologizing for my mere existence. the amount of space i take up in a room. for the sound of my voice. the amount and extent to which i feel things. i have said the words i’m sorry more than i have said anything else in my life. and for that i am sorry. sorry to no one but myself. for continuing to let myself feel insignificant. my personality can fill a room. my words can inspire. and my feelings can change the world. but only if i allow them to. only if i allow myself to be unapologeticly me.

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I'm surprised I'm here writing this, because today I'm surprised I'm still here. today i don't want to still be here. today i want to die.  these past few days/weeks have been really hard on me mentally. i don't feel like myself anymore. i feel like a stranger in my own head. i feel like a stranger in my own body. the panic is back. the anxiety is back. and i am drowning.  i burned myself today. for the first tie in a really long time. bad. and when i woke up to that familiar pain, i couldn't tell if i was upset or happy that i was feeling something physical instead of mental, just for a moment. but then hours later i took at myself in the mirror, 9 new scars. 9 new setbacks, 9 new things for me to hate when i look at myself. ill be 23 in 2 weeks and I'm still turning to this when I'm not okay. and i hate that. i hate this. i hate bipolar. i hate myself.

08.28.2019

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9 new scars. 9 stupid decisions. and a lifetime of remembering who i was at my lowest point.

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it’s time to go away

[chiquepea]

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i just want to be able to breathe. just one deep breath. please.

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i truly want to die.

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thanks for kissing me in the car that night. maybe now when i’m stuck in that car in the traffic that used to boil my blood, i’ll sit and smile. i’ll feel the kisses this car got to see.

[letters-left-unsent]

it’s been a few days since i’ve written.

so much has happened, but also nothing at all?

i’ve spent the last few days with my friends in philly. searching thrift stores, record shops, book stores, looking for something. looking to feel something.

this is going to sound so corny, so sappy, and so hopeless romantic of me. but this girl has been here. and i knew the moment i met her that i wanted to kiss her. to be around her. not the one you see on a screen, through a tweet, or the one in the smiling pictures that frequent social media. but the girl who writes with her heart, who speaks with her soul, who could make the whole room erupt in deafening laughter. the one who expects nothing of the world, but deserves everything.

thanks for spending a few days letting me look into your heart through those big brown eyes.

[letters-left-unsent]

we were known for fucking. it’s what we did. and we did it well. but fucking turned into dates that weren’t dates, to forehead kisses, back rubs, and just straight up sleeping. last night was the first night i’ve just slept, just slept with you. i wanted to just wake up next to you. i don’t think you feel the same and that’s okay. that’s not what you signed up for. i said that 100 times. but here i am feeling, finally, without fucking.

[letters-left-unsent]

see you in san diego claire

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being here makes me so sad. makes me miss you so fucking much

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it has been exactly 36 days since i have taken my medication. 36 days seems like nothing in relation to my 22 years on this earth. but heres the thing. those 36 days they took parts of me. i hate this. i hate these feelings. i hate this cycle. the take your pills feel okay, feel normal, feel like things are getting better and you don't need them anymore. so you stop. because you're strong enough on your own, right? wrong. i cant tell you how many times I've done this exact cycle over and over and over again thinking the outcome is going to be different. 36 days later and nothing is different. why, why has society forced me to believe that i am so fucking weak simply for trying to help myself. its like id rather suffer, scream, cry, lose parts of myself just so others don't see me as weak. well fuck this. fuck that. fuck society. 

[letters-left-unsent]

i used to drive a hundred miles an hour down the highway and feel nothing. no excitement. no fear. nothing. now i go over 80 and my heart skips a beat and i lean toward the brake.