Tag Archives: depression

cremation.

make me smaller
than any particle
of human light.

grind me up
into dirty grits
of cartilage and mucus.

crush me underfoot
with your feather
and sweep away my soul.

pour me through
the metal grate
along with your waste.

smoother me with
layer upon layer
of tight, black nets.

drown me deep
and let the seaweed
poison my lungs.

kill me now.
take my breath quickly
and let me surrender.

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netflix.

i watched it
again,
so i could
remember
the pain.

i lived in
that world
for so long.
i thought i’d
forgotten.

scrape the surface
and you will
find it.

not a longing
to remember,
but a longing
not to forget.


22:22

makes me feel
not quite so alone.


innate.

i feel it pulling
[me] in;
is that how it is
for [you]?

not even
begging, but
knowing i will
surrender.

follow it,
feel it,
obsess and
crave the purge.

i can almost
feel the pain
before i embrace it;
almost etched
into my skin
before i collapse
into the sharp
embrace.

i envy
her willpower
and control.
i envy his
distortion.
i envy the complete
surrender
to a distinction
of control.

this innate;
this blood
that tears through me;
this tremor and
insatiable
imagination.


request.

there is the realisation,
that this is your life:
and you’ve spent more than half of it
wishing it was over.

take me now,
the tearful plea each night;

take me now,
the gutless desperation;

take me now,
so i can forget;

take me now,
before the game unravels;

take me now,
let this be the last time.


implode.

because
it feels like,
my heart
is still breaking
multiple times
in the day.

because
the pain
and grief
continue
to obliterate
my lungs.

because
every step
outside the shell
is opportunity
for panicked
collapse.

because
i have only
two gears:
self-destruction
or
cowering solitude.

because
why sleep
when the hours
are an anxious monotony
of every terrorising fear
and every disappointing flaw.

because
everything hurts
but “so it goes”:
still my heart beats
still my lungs inflate
still my brain implodes.


[okay]?

what happened?
it’s okay.

where did you go?
it’s okay.

how’s your heart?
it’s okay.

is it dark?
it’s okay.

are you alone?
it’s okay.

when will it stop?
it’s okay.

why not?
it’s okay.

it’s okay.
it’s okay.
it’s okay.
it’s okay.
it’s okay.


organ donor.

slice me open,
take my lungs:
they have overcome asthma;
broken the limits of anxiety; and
suffered the deepest grief and pain.
still i breathe.
take my lungs.

slice me open,
take my liver:
it was once clean and pure,
until annihilated in a moment;
but time and time over, proof of natural restoration.
still i heal.
take my liver.

slice me open,
take my heart:
it is cool to touch;
ice-like and made of broken stone;
simultaneously rough and fragile.
still i live.
take my heart.

slice me open,
take my [life].


infinite.

imagine if we met,
before time had burnt us;
before the heat
was pooled at my feet.

i would clasp your hand
for eternity;
and the grey burdens
would be warmer and shared.

silence could protect us,
as we built a nest:
preparing for hibernation
in an infinite winter.


switch.

the lid
is over-flowing
with familiar
self-loathing.

but a different
kind of tremor;
no tears and
just cold, dark eyes.

no heart
can warm me.
i hear your name
and shiver.

memory and
my head aches.
the switch flipped
the wrong way.