Letters To No One

Bad poetry & Letters I’ll Never Send

[thoughtsinthearlymorning]

I hate being emotionally overstimulated

It makes me feel so sick all the time

[thoughtsinthearlymorning]

I guess I’m just struggling to identify and deal with my emotions and it’s manifesting into physical pain and it sucks.

But there’s just so many things I want to say but there’s no way I can actually say it all.

[not-a-space-alien]

[gay-jesus-probably]

am i agender? yes. is my birth name strictly feminine? also yes. will it become a deadname? FUCK NO, I've spent 22 years struggling to get people to spell this fucking name right on the first try, i'm fucking attached to it. we're here for the long haul baby. someones gonna inevitably fuck up writing a nametag for me or something when i'm like 80 and the built up rage will manifest as psychic powers, allowing me to explode peoples heads from a distance. the perfect crime.

[thoughtsinthearlymorning]

I hate how days like today almost trigger a relapse. It really sucks and I hate it. I hate how things lately really want me to give up on recovery.

[thoughtsinthearlymorning]

I hate that I’ve been so afraid of relapse for the past few weeks.

Wish I had someone to talk to.

[thoughtsinthearlymorning]

I hate how my emotions are so jumbled together that I’m struggling to maintain a healthy relationship with food.

[thoughtsinthearlymorning]

I hate how I need to fight the urge to not hurt myself.

[thoughtsinthearlymorning]

I made bubble tea and watched anime and I feel better. I just needed some self care.

[thoughtsinthearlymorning]

I wished I had someone to talk to. Someone who would just listen.

And hold me after.

Because I’m just so tired of pretending to be someone else, when all I want to do is cry and disappear. I just feel guilty talking to the same people, like I’m supposed to self sufficient. I don’t deserve kindness. I don’t deserve love. I’m selfish. I know all of those things aren’t true.

But I can’t help but feel that all I deserve is toxicity, pain, and suffering. That all I deserve is to be miserable.

[thoughtsinthearlymorning]

Confession moment.

I didn’t eat dinner cause I thought I didn’t deserve it.

[thoughtsinthearlymorning]

I’m in so much pain.

I just want it to stop.

[thoughtsinthearlymorning]

I really don’t know how I survived this long unmedicated

I can feel it. I’m starting to spiral.

I need help. I know.

I need something.

I don’t know if I can last through the winter.

But I know why my heart aches.

I’m dying.

I’m dying and I don’t know how long I’ll last.

[thoughtsinthearlymorning]

My heart aches like I fell out of love. Or maybe somewhere somehow someone fell out of love with me. But lately I’ve noticed, I lost my sense of taste. Do you know what plain pasta taste like? Or maybe it’s more like unseasoned mashed potatoes. Yeah that’s it.

Unseasoned mashed potatoes. Without the skin. Just bland potatoes that weren’t even boiled in salted water.

I’ve tried everything.

Salty, sweet, bitter, sour, buttery, rich, creamy, light.

I can’t taste it. I can’t even taste spicy anymore.

I’ve tried. Promise I really did.

My heart hurts. I can’t even taste my own tears when they fall down my face.

I’ve eaten so spicy, I’ve sweated and vomited from the heat. But I couldn’t taste it.

I added salt, lemon juice, garlic, oh goodness

So much damn garlic.

I added olive oil, avocado oil. Coconut oil. Peanut oil. Even butter.

Shredded lettuce and chopped shiitake with glass noodles drizzled with fish sauce.

Pounded garlic and sliced ginger to sizzle in a pan.

Followed by a hail of diced onions, and spring showers of lemon.

Soft flurries of cilantro

And nothing.

No matter what I do.

Everything tastes like unseasoned mashed potatoes.

So I turn off my burners. Wash my dishes.

Hang my apron. And leave.

And hope that one day my sense of taste comes back.

For if it doesn’t. I’m not sure I will.

[thoughtsinthearlymorning]

My heart aches.

And I don’t know why.

Did someone fall out of love with me?

Did I fall out of love?

I don’t know why.

Maybe.

Maybe I did fall out of love.

Maybe I fell out of love with myself.

I can’t taste anything anymore.

Salty. Sweet. What’s the difference?

Bland, spicy, umami, bitter, sour, rich, light, buttery,

Nothing.

I tried anything.

I salted till my lips cracked and bled.

I had spice until I would sweat and vomit.

But I can’t taste it.

There no point in eating if I can’t taste my food,

[thoughtsinthearlymorning]

I’m a little ashamed of how long of a journey this took.

But I finally feel comfortable in my own skin.

To be so desperate for love, I looked for it anywhere I could find.

Toxic boyfriends, flaky friends, so called family.

I did everything I could to please them.

To get them to like me. And cried when they didn’t.

Fully convinced that love wasn’t for me, I did full well to punish myself.

Perhaps if I hurt enough someone would love me, they had to wouldn’t they?

I ate. I starved. Slicing up my thighs and wrists.

Laid in bed of strangers. Because if I could please them, at least one would love me.

Wouldn’t they love me then?

But no one did.

No one needed to.

For all I needed

Was myself.

For all the love I needed,

I already had to give.

[thoughtsinthearlymorning]

I feel like an addict.

When I’m anxious, I feel the ever increasing need to feel something. I dig my nails into my palms and grit my teeth hoping it’ll pass. But it doesn’t.

And the half moons in my palms aren’t enough.

What should I do?

Should I tug my hair till my scalp aches.

Bite my lip till it bleeds?

All I want is something to hurt

I’m jonesing

Digging my nails along my skin, I resist.

Though I wish my nails were razors, I resist.

It’s all I can think about.

That fleeting high.

My mind so focused on pain it forgets.

Till it stops

And I come back down

And all I’m filled with is shame.