May

sharing my attempts at poetry!

[maybemediocrepoetry]

Honey

I used to sit there at night, blood dripping down my thigh like honey, comforting yet sickeningly sweet, staining my sheets like I’m eating in bed, despite my mother telling me I shouldn’t.

I used to promise her I wouldn’t.

But here I am, with honey stained clothes and bees buzzing in my brain wanting to make more.

My body is a hive, my thighs are sore.

My bees are working so hard not to break,

but there’s only so much I can take, before I crave something sweet again.

[maybemediocrepoetry]

Codependency

I used to fall apart in people’s arms,

and had them rebuild me in their image.

Cycles of Codependency ended in versions of myself I couldn’t recognize.

Had them tell me who to be,

like poems written uncreatively,

copied personality like lines taken from another’s work.

I used to be a clean canvas,

now I’m made up of so many colors I can’t tell what’s underneath.

They touch me,

sculpt me,

paint me,

to their hearts own desire.

They touch me,

use me,

sculpt me,

like a piece of human pottery.

Codependency is Art.

Art is Codependency.

[maybemediocrepoetry]

good bad days

I think I feel good today.

I don’t feel good but I don’t know it yet.

I think of drowning myself in alcohol, think of having sex, think of smoking a cigarette.

I think I feel good today.

And still I snap at everyone around me,

all bark no bite, hoping it will make me feel right, make me feel less insane.

Make me feel less shame.

The realization of what I’ve been thinking only hits when I’m depressed.

I feel more sane when it gets bad like that. Bad to the point I can’t get dressed, bad in a way that actually feels bad.

Because nobody cares if you drink or have sex.

They only care when you have a noose around your neck or a bottle of pills in your hand, when the self destruction is something they actually understand, not what to them is everyday life.

To me sex is as harmful as a blade against my thigh, so here I am writing a poem talking about how I’d rather get high then admit to myself that I’m not okay.

But maybe it’s okay that I’m not, maybe It’s okay I don’t know, because I’d rather have a good bad day than no day at all.

[maybemediocrepoetry]

Attention

My brain goes fuzzy, molding like food left out to long because the things you say still affect me, like the passing of time, even when you’re not around.

If you don’t use me up before you leave I will rot and I will die waiting for you to give me the attention I know I don’t deserve. Don’t want. I don’t want you to watch me, use me, eat me up.

My brain goes fuzzy and I want nothing more than to leave you. But then my brain is on fire.

My brain burns like candles mourning my own suicide. It burns and it flickers and all I want is for somebody to see. I deserve to be seen like this.

If you don’t acknowledge I am a light, I will burn to the ground and take you with me. I need you to watch me, use me, light me on fire in the first place.

My brain is on fire, and I cannot leave you. I need you to hurt me, I need to be seen. But then my brain goes fuzzy.

[maybemediocrepoetry]

A poem for myself

My favorite poem ends with the words „write yourself a poem.“

But my poetry is to mediocre to make me sound interesting. How much I hate myself is the only thing I write about. How I hate myself, and no matter what I do, I fail miserably.

„Write yourself a poem.“

But I write about the people I love, and how I’m so self destructive that they could never love me back. I try to write myself a poem, and I fail miserably.

„Write yourself a poem.“

But I write to please others, like I live to please others, and I act to please others. And I fail miserably.

„Write yourself a poem.“

But that I can not write that poem is all my poem is about. I tried to write myself a poem. And I failed miserably.

[maybemediocrepoetry]

Grateful Prayers

As a child I used to pray every night. Say thank you for my food, my family, my friends, my health. Thank you to the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.

My father used to make this joke. „You can call me dad.“ whenever I used Gods name in vain. It felt hypocritical, saying thank you to the Father of Fathers, even in the nights my own left me for years to come. Thank you to the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.

When I first started realizing Im not a daughter, I wanted nothing less than to be a son. My brother is a son. He used to hit me, scream at me, and pull my hair. God seemed to forgive him. Nobody forgave me for deciding I’m a son rather than a daughter. Thank you to the Father, The Son, and the Holy Ghost.

The Holy Ghost was always the most difficult for me to understand. A presence with you at any time. I was scared it would see me sinning. Whenever I thanked the Holy Ghost, I thanked it for punishing me. And for not stopping me from punishing myself. Thank you to the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.

When I escaped religion all of this stuck with me. Thanking the Father for my father, even when he was more of a stranger than a dad. Thanking the Son for my parents son, even if he hurt me at any given chance. And thanking the Holy Ghost for letting me feel the pain I felt I deserved. Thank you to the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.

Sometimes I still pray. Even if I don’t believe. I say thank you for things I don’t really have. Thanks for the food I don’t eat, the health I lack, the family and friends who treat me like they aren’t just that. Thank you to the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.