dead acct

dead account. i wrote these poems when I was a child. judge accordingly ♡

[poeticashtray]

My face was small once, I think

all soft and supple with clean pores and bright blue eyes ornamental

now in the throws of this early adulthood

with these dirty spots and red blotches

I moisturize and scrub, pick and pick.

I make things worse.

I am so accustomed to making things worse that I hardly flinch at the prospect.

I tell myself in the mirror that I need to stop picking,

that this over-analysing is a symptom of an illness I already know the name of.

I say this as I pull at my hair and think of shaving it again,

think how happy I'd be if I could free myself of this skin

if I could slip out of it and into a metal box,

robotic voice and clean steal walls

I think of cutting off my skin,

of burning it,

of bathing it in chemicals.

People tell me sometimes that I have good skin

people tell me sometimes that I am smart

people tell me sometimes that I am clean,

that my bed is clean, that my skin is clean,

that there are no bugs in my refridgerdor,

that there are no bugs crawling up the back of my arms at all times,

that there is not a man waiting for me on my front porch as I walk home,

that the trucks I see everywhere do not belong to my father,

people tell me I am safe

people tell me a lot of things that I do not quite believe even though I know they are right.

This anxiety is not cute

it is not quirky to cry over the thought of something

to have it chant in my mind

even now I have a hard time spitting out the thoughts,

so worried they may torment me yet again

who knew you could trigger yourself?

My brain repeats things until I break down,

twists my arm behind my back and says,

SAY UNCLE

and I hold off,

I am still strong enough to hold off for a time

but I flinch,

I sting in the moment

and I always,

give it what it wants.

And what it wants is my functionality

to make me nothing but a drooling mess thinking the same thought on repeat,

the same anxiety never ending

playing like a-playinglikea-p-p-p-p-playing like a broken record

A Poem About Suffering From Obsessive Anxiety or What Would Happen if OCD and Anxiety Had a Big Fucked Up Baby // by Macey Giles Rosania

[poeticashtray]

So a girl walks into a bar and takes a seat on a swiveling stool,

She isn't short but het legs still sway a bit at the knees,

Creek a little when they bend,

She looks around like she's waiting for someone but she's not,

People say that's always how she looked. All starry eyed like her lover could show their face any minute and she'd know them on sight.

A girl walks into a bar and takes out her phone,

Throws her red hair to the right shoulder and looks up to order a rum and diet coke,

She's diabetic,

Doesn't drink either.

She let's the drink get warm in her hand.

A girl walks into a bar and asks for her tab,

Isn't shocked to see how much she racked up while she slept,

Licks the lip of a nearby shot glass and guesses the brand of lipstick.

A girl walks into a bar with sunglasses on.

The bar isn't bright.

People say she wears them all the time for no reason.

She isn't mysterious so much as she makes a scene wherever she goes but it never reaches a conclusion.

A girl walks into a bar naked,

Lays herself on the circular tables with her legs tightly pressed together.

This is how she pretends she's learned to open up.

People say she's always naked, But only the bad men make use of it.

A damaged girl walks into a room with no one in it,

Curls herself into a ball,

And falls asleep.

Damaged Girl - A Piece of Writing That Makes Almost No Sense by Macey Giles Rosania

[poeticashtray]

She puts out her hands, palms down, and we all watch as her soul pours from them.

The salt of her ocean has dried her skin,

She bleeds at the slightest touch.

Maybe she's just sick of always being the one to give herself away.

Every part of herself, earmarked.

Her pages are bent and she has had days where her readers try to cut out the parts they do not like.

Every unpleasant truth,

Her ending has been torn out all together.

she's not sure if that means this is her end,

here in the middle.

She has never been good at telling people that she is not a book.

That she can not be rewritten so easily.

There is a theory that the first 80% of any written work is only 20% of the story, and that the remaining 20% will always hold 80% of the value.

She holds herself to not being a book anymore.

She holds herself to finding value 100% of the time.

Learns that highlighters still feel nice sometimes

The pink ones she used to use when she was small,

Head in a dictionary highlighting the words she liked best.

Sometimes she can still be found with a flashlight,

Under the covers she learns how to highlight the parts of herself she likes best.

She puts her hands out, palms down,

And we all watch as her soul pours from them.

I think this is how she keeps herself floating.

She brings her ocean everywhere,

Who is to say her ocean is not beautiful?

Whipping waves look so graceful until you are at their mercy.

her skin bleeds,

at the slightest

touch.

She puts out her hands, palms down, and we all watch as her soul pours from them.

How her ocean makes her eggs in the morning.

I heard she has learned how to control the waves of it now,

Her emotions are a full time house-mate

She said she's gonna make 100% of her life mean something.

I heard she's not even floating anymore,

She said that felt too much like sleeping.

And she won't let the waves

knock her down anymore.

She Pours Out Her Soul by Macey Giles Rosania

[poeticashtray]

It's Kind of a Funny Story - Book Review - No Spoilers

4 •☆☆☆☆

This book details the journey of a 15 year old boy dealing with clinical depression and I was happy to see that his issues are not presented as childish due to his age. You can seriously tell it’s a true story by how well portrayed his character is. I’d seriously recommend this book to neurotypicals who have misconceptions about mental illness, or to atypicals who need a reminder that they aren’t alone. I found it a bit slow at first being that it wasn't exactly my first mental-illness-rodeo, but the end saved it. The ending of this book is beautifully tied together and complete. I love the way in which the author doesn’t undercut how truly sad the subject matter is, while still gifting you a feeling of hope and a renewed will to push on.

[poeticashtray]

Tonight is an after thought We don't ask if we can stay the night anymore You've got a toothbrush in my bathroom, I love sleeping in your clothes. If you had to describe what you're feeling it be best compared to that time in the early morning, around 4am, when you continue to say tonight when what you mean is hours past. Tonight lives in yesterday. I find your hand next to my hip and push thumbs together, lace my fingers into yours.

Some thoughts from the middle of the night by Macey Giles Rosania

[poeticashtray]

I wake up at 3:22am from a dream Where we catch fireflies together And you tell me about how they didn't have them where you grew up. You mold into a different face but you're the same character. You tell me how you used to love The Misfits and a frog croaks in the stream I put my hands on my thighs and see I've turned pink all the way to my ankles. I can't tell if it's a blush, Or if I haven't gotten all the blood off yet. You're not even a person anymore. Your voice, omnipresent, I feel it as it enters my body, Only to slide back out And back in again. Your voice shifts into something deeper, A slight accent hides amongst the naturalisation. You tell me it's okay. I'm safe. I believe you and I'm glad I do. I fight your form as it melts into a man I've never wished to see. My voice is a car alarm, You tell me it's okay. I'm safe. I don't believe you because it's not true You take the form of a monster who looks like a man. I can't control your form so I lay there. I remind myself that while you may take many shapes, You've always been my voice.

Sexuality Takes Form - PART 2 OF THE SERIES "Taking Back My Sexuality" by Macey G Rosania

[poeticashtray]

Sweet like sex, or, passion fruit. Your heart like an exposed wire. Soft fingers intertwined like ribbon Cut flowers, or, heated whispers. Never more or less than a moment where we were both bored.

Sex by Macey G Rosania

[poeticashtray]

My heart, ajar The sound of the car alarm Everyone's mouths moving No one talking to me, Anymore. The water that rushes through me has gone stagnant. I ask you to dip your toes in but I suppose I don't look much like an oasis anymore. I suppose I don't look like much anymore. All tar on pavement, soft in the summer heat. I've never been one to let things happen naturally. Always thought it was my nature to push things into place. I suppose things don't always work that way. I suppose we don't work that way.

No Good at Being Soft by Macey G Rosania

[poeticashtray]

They say the world is ending. They say it's DOA, Children throw stones in wishing wells hoping one day things will be better. I feel the sun on my back like a kiss. Never more aware of my privelege. I go home and eat my fill, The choice of seconds. My name scratched into the dirt somewhere. I'll be buried. They say the world is at its worst, That the world is ending. I say we're all just new to a feeling of danger. Can't say the same for children throwing stones. Never could say the same for children here, In this home. By god, bad things did happen. A different bad. But when did we start comparing scars to fresh wounds? Children throw stones into wishing wells hoping one day things will be better. All you can do is roll over and pretend you don't see them. People say the world is ending. But it's just their first taste of something so many have already had in their mouths for far too long. It's the ones who've done the least that will be hurt first. Don't let there be a day where children throw stones in wishing wells hoping that one day they can have a kiss from the sun.

Kiss From the Sun //or// The Paris Accord by Macey Giles Rosania

[poeticashtray]

No time for anything individual other than thought All this time and all I’ve got is Work from others like Things they planned for me You see When you live in a hospital they keep your busy. Have you ever looked out the window and saw a cute babe on the street And thought that if only you were down there you’d make a move But you know it’s not true cause Life moves fast but not fast enough to make you wanna make it last It's incredible the things we miss when we're trying to become better people

Thoughts by Macey Giles Rosania from the hospital.

[poeticashtray]

Your icecream mouth is Cold and Unromantic Shaved legs like a reminder that I gave in to the way that People want me to be Carley calls in a Monster Rip I call it a home remedie You've always been up for a challenge Like dealing with psychosomatic tendencies Like icecream kisses Like cold Like unashamed unromanticism Your wrist against my own like it does yoga If you were a brand of bra you'd be known for your comfortability without compromising sexuality Your a 3 inch heel that feels like a bunny slipper Like a cold icecream mouth Like cold Like being unashamed That this is what happens when you get comfortable Things don't get less romantic If you let the romantic things change.

Icecream Mouth by Macey G Rosania (pot induced poetry series)

[poeticashtray]

You used to love the bees and wear a septum ring Now you're acting like an addict and all you do is sting.

Sisters by Macey G Rosania

[poeticashtray]

Please find me outside With my hair undone and my shoes untied Find me by the water With my heart out from the slaughter Of my left lungs fight against the right With my loose joints held up by my tights

Will delete later. Just trying to write more. Rhyming for some reason by Macey G Rosania.

[poeticashtray]

Depression breeds movement. I am moving, Constantly But when I wish to still I can not stop my muscles from shaking. I am moving even as I lay in bed motionless My mind is the tick of the keyboard all night The scratch of pencil on paper These noises keep me up at night. I haven’t written a poem in months and the noises have been so loud An artist is blessed with movement. Cursed with stillness. When did writers block start to feel like a knife in my side? When did lost words start to make their way into my dreams? Every time I try to write about what happened my tongue gets stuck, I can’t write about it so I dream about it Every night I have to remind myself you aren’t here. You can’t hurt me anymore. It’s my body My choice Your rough hands and my small voice. You can’t keep me quite anymore But I still have dreams where you kidnap me. I still have dreams where we go shopping together and buy those tiny breakfast sausages I used to love when I was a little girl. I don’t pretend I don’t have good memories of you. I wish every day that this memory would melt away. I’m in love with the idea of a fable where you aren’t the bad guy. So I try But I can’t forgive you Can’t forget again Can’t keep pushing my pencil against my skin in hopes of bleeding out your memory. You can’t control me anymore. You can’t tell me I like this anymore. I keep having these dreams where you hold me by the wrists, or Leer at my bedroom door. They aren’t pretty. No audience wants to here the word I can’t write But they can’t control me either. A poet is blessed with movement You can’t hold me still. It’s used to be your actions Your loud voice Your bad decisions And me without a choice But it isn’t like that anymore I’m not a defenseless little girl and you’re not going to hurt me. I am alive to the idea that one day I’ll be able to have a dream of going shopping with you to buy those sausages I loved when I was a little girl, And I won’t wake up crying. Who says you can’t rearrange your memories? I don’t have to let you ruin my childhood. No audience wants to here the words I still can’t write but I have to say them. Molestation doesn’t have to ruin your life. If you’re brave enough to write about it.

A Poem I Couldn't Write Last Year by Macey Giles Rosania

[poeticashtray]

I am hurting. My bones, hallow like a small bird I do not understand how I remain flightless. The tightness in my muscles aches like they may snap loose. You are the one hurting me and yet I can only think of you. I can only think of the next time you’ll hold me in your arms, Your flightless bird. Taken too many times as prey But you’re no predator. We’re both just messed up people with loose joints, clanking bones in cold December wind. You’re still a little boy who doesn’t know how to love and I Am still a 75 year old mother of 4 who doesn’t know how to take care of themselves anymore. Maybe you’ll come home and everything will get better. Maybe it won’t.

Birdy and Boy by Macey Rosania

[poeticashtray]

Election Night - A True Short Story of Severity and Comic Relief. Follow me as I take you into the night of November 8th, I am pant-less and crying, leaving this world just as I came into it. As I write this into my shitty back up phone, Donald Trump seems to be, well... winning the presidential election, and Donald, if you've heard any of my prior poetry... Ha ha ha... /Listen/ Donald! Donny! Can I call you Donny? Listen Donny. You know I was just playing right? Yeah yeah just playing. I didn't call you cinnamon hitler! No no, I called you a cinnamon hipster. You know, cool, current, and fall scented. Ha... Please don't deport my boyfriend and defund my health care. Oh shit I fuck you not my friends at this exact moment of 1am the night of the election, my internet just went out. Is this the first wave? They take my wifi and then what? Alright the Wifis back I'm researching how hard it might be for me to survive in Canada, and having periodic aneurysms. 215:244 Trump God I've never hated numbers so much, And I've taken honours algebra. Alright I've muted the news casters and turned my attention to satire horror. Pretty much the same. I anxiously read over what I've written so far and clatter to check the polls again. No change. I pass out around 2am and wake up in a cold sweat. My mother is standing over my bed looking down at me like a crypt keeper. It's raining and dark even though it's morning, like a set up for a horror movie. "Wha-what?" I ask, afraid to speak. My mother moistens her lips and stands there silently for a few agonising seconds. "Trump is president" she says, in the exact tone she once used to tell me my grandmother had died. I said nothing, rolled over, and began to dream. In the dream, I am sat up in bed scrolling viewing election results. I wake in a start, believing it was all a dream. My sister is there, her arm on mine, telling me to get up and have breakfast. I look at her, And say "Trump is president" I hope to dear god she will deny it, offer some explanation, She shakes her head sadly, and stands "Put some pants on"

Election Night by Macey (Giles) Rosania

[promptsgalore]

Write something that includes the following:

a white dress

dirty fingernails

Chinese take-out

a walk by the water

cold air