R O M A N C E (poem about glamourising mental-health)
don’t make it sound romantic,
It’s like drowning in the Atlantic,
it’s not a fan-fic,
I can’t stand it,
so now I’m ranting,
and the notion,
of this emotion is rancid,
OCD is a never-solving riddle,
I don’t ‘wash my hands a little’
or put my stationary in the middle,
it’s bigger than an acronym,
it’s not fun, a fad, that’s rad,
it’s telling my mum and dad,
that the kid they had
is sad,
and quietly going mad;
it’s pills and fluoxetine,
being eighteen, nineteen,
quiet screams,
and routines,
than you follow like an order,
clean your phone, your glasses,
your school bag,
your schoolwork goes in the bin,
because you don’t like who touched it
and now you’re failing all of your classes,
time passes,
and this illness harasses
you
like a person on the street
a bully at your feet,
makes you retreat
so you have social anxiety right?
but you’re at a party every Saturday night,
when there’s people who might,
not even go to the store because they’re afraid of the line,
OCD is being constantly indescive
a “where shall I sit?”
when a phobia becomes violent,
and you can’t make up your mind
about where your mind is,
when your body is a canvas and you paint in red,
wear long-sleeves in the summer,
to cover where razors bled,
kissed your skin and fled,
and now you can’t get out of bed
but at least self-harm,
gets you out of your head,
being depressed isn’t being tired
it’s an anchor in your chest,
bulimia isn’t pretty,
it’s sickly,
and imitating false anorexia
doesn’t make you sexier,
but don’t say it’s for boys to text you,
it’s not an attribute
it’s a weapon, a noose,
do you also find knives attractive?
social media is interactive
but it can hold you captive,
don’t adapt to it,
don’t make it glamorous,
your illness is not a model,
it doesn’t pout for cameras,
a panic attack
is a blood curdling scream
that no-one hears,
and I’m not trying to offend,
I just want to comprehend
How my worst nightmare, become my generations trend?
maybe we’re shining a spotlight on this and diluting the stigma,
or maybe the whole thing has just become an enigma,
a balancing act, where no-one can say the right thing, so we all just stay silent,
I’m not an advocate
who wants you to cut,
and please nourish yourself
don’t starve and punish yourself,
it’s not a game, it’s not playground fun,
a trigger isn’t just something on the architecture of a gun,
it is not a small irritation,
frustration,
it’s not an infatuation
you use to impress your generation
I’m tired of these stereotypical claims,
categories and lanes,
young adult novel popularity
where the girl is just something to save
when she’s a slave,
to the way
her mind behaves,
I lost the best years of my life to these chains,
and I refrain from ever falling into that rabbit hole again,
just because tumblr taught me to glorify my pain,
I write poems on there too,
but they’re a helping hand
not a brand,
I wear because it’s cool
the real victims lost their voices,
so you can call this a mouthpiece,
bipolar disorder is not being moody,
it’s not some alternative niche,
I collapsed in my bathroom,
have metal plates in my jaw,
so it’s important to speak while you can,
turn a whisper into a roar.
annaxmalina
theartofmadeline
vaporwave
kianamaiart
areudirty
ellievsbear
2087
