things i wish i could tell my dog by MisfitableGrae, literature
Literature
things i wish i could tell my dog
1. waiting and watching the door
won’t make them come back any sooner,
trust me on this one.
2. i know sometimes you yell as loud
as you can and people just tell you
to hush. sometimes you can scream your heart out
and no one will pay attention to you.
3. puppy dog eyes won’t get you through
school.
4. why the hell did you go and make me
the center of your whole world?
(i’m sorry i can’t do the same)
5. i know i’m good at leaving
but bad at coming back.
you’re good at staying.
6. the rabbits you dream about are brown,
your tail is always right behind you,
the delivery man doesn’t really want to
all those that want to destroy me by jikivigoig, literature
Literature
all those that want to destroy me
i.
i tie the skeleton's hands together behind
her back. she hisses words at me,
stinging and disastrous in my ears,
and i will never find a way to stitch her lips closed
because she has none,
just bone and empty spaces.
ii.
i reaquaint myself with the ceiling yet again.
insomnia tugs the blanket up to my
chin, raps her knuckles on my
forehead and shoves a finger
in my ear. she shields me from sleep as
though she's doing me a favour. i roll away
and ask the wall to let me
go, let me
rest,
but she clambers over me just as i'm about
to slip away and slices my nose off.
iii.
she has no legs to stand on,
so she wraps her arms around my neck
the only one to never turn away by jikivigoig, literature
Literature
the only one to never turn away
your fingertips graze so very lightly on my skin. i know you're too close, but i let you push my sleeves up gently, a breath of regret in the air. you touch the gashes like a whisper, staring at the ragged red lines etched in my pale fragile forearm. only one or two cut across the visible vein, red against blue.
the silence is almost tangible. your hands are so soft, and i am aching with something i cannot name, but your eyes are shining and i'm sorry, i'm so sorry.
"i can't help it," i whisper, lips dry and voice thin and brittle. i need you to understand this.
your finger brushes across my torn skin. it stings, but i don't flinch.
"why?
i.
she blows empty air into my lungs.
how many days did you last?
three.
ii.
i write while chewing on a razorblade.
iii.
somebody is pushing me sideways,
somebody is stuffing my skull full of cotton balls
and hoping i don't notice my thoughts are no longer there,
i
collapse.
iv.
i am too sad
to belong
here.
they look at me sideways, wondering, questioning.
if you asked with tangible words,
perhaps i might be honest. (perhaps not.)
v.
my limbs are tree branches,
gnarled and heavy a
sometimes i'll take the nightmares instead by jikivigoig, literature
Literature
sometimes i'll take the nightmares instead
my face is smudged out,
"i can't. i just can't."
i sleep for fourteen hours
dreaming of torn sleeves and fingernails
drawing crescents in my back.
waking up
only greets me with the job
of cleaning wounds: some keep opening
their mouths to scream again
and some are oozing the beginnings of infection.
"you haven't
been sleeping much, have you?"
voices seek me from a distance.
i stare at the ceiling: my vision is too
often disturbed now but sometimes it can be
fascinating to follow the smoky tendrils
with my eye-line.
"what's on your
i wake up bloody every morning by jikivigoig, literature
Literature
i wake up bloody every morning
i'm sipping water from brittle china teacups,
only to lower it and find it's a diluted
orange-red colour, faint, and yes, i've been drinking this -
"you have blood on your forehead."
--
there is a certain kind of slush-vein dread
to eyes meeting skin:
it's hard to pretend that that middle-aged
man is not leaning out the window of his car to catch
a closer glimpse of my laddered arms.
and it's too late because my sleeves have been
dunked into dirty dishwater,
damp halfway to my elbow and i'm still hiding
secrets between my yellow teeth, forcing my eyelids
inside out so i might be able to detect the next moment waiting
out of reach.
pacin
i'm caught in a permanent state
of blood loss where the flickers
in my vision are only
black-butterfly friends
and i don't remember how i
got here exactly
but i don't
know whether i
can handle this when i
am on the edge of desperate tears
trying to find a top that will hide all of
these dreadful scars
on my shoulders and my arms
and i can't find a
single
thing
and yeah,
i haven't been sleeping well lately
because when i'm caught in that in-between
space just a second before i fall,
some violent image
splashes across the backs of
my eyelids:
it's sometimes you and the look you
got in your eyes, during,
and it's sometimes just hands reaching
that feeling of relief
in darkened days
remembering once
with hollow eyes and broken gazes,
floods my skin like taut stares,
uncomfortable
the key snapping blurry worlds
into focus.
I dissolve, scars upon scars,
building tales of months
forgotten and
pain bleeding outside borders
only blissful addiction.
[ breathing monitored,
as watched as I am ]
confusion, hazy like counting
backwards
for that feeling in freedom,
for waiting.
perfection comes in blood
and agony, for searching
out hungry addiction.
watch
addiction, hungry,
out searching for agony
and blood.
in comes perfection,
w
Therapists, I don't like their taste. by DearPoetry, literature
Literature
Therapists, I don't like their taste.
i.
in 7th grade
i didn’t know depression
until she told me her name,
carving forever scratches
along my limbs like
little love notes on the bark
of a tree.
she stole my rings
and left me hollow.
ii.
i had only ever met anxiety
in passing, until one day
he handed me power and told me
to hurt someone else with it.
iii.
inexperienced,
with an uncontrollable
quivering in my fingers,
he whispered, “ to survive,
you must learn quickly.”
as i shoved the bevel of a needle
into a strangers arm.
iv.
so, if a therapist
could talk away my scars
like iodine disinfects,
guide the ships
through