Talk to me and tell me about how you’re feeling

I try but I feel like I just say the same things over and over because it’s the same feeling but sometimes just worse and I don’t know how to fully describe it because I can’t form a sentence in my brain much less on text or in person

But I can make a blog post

Of a song in my head like a guy in a video talking of his last love

Who wasn’t really his love at all but in his mind she always was

Just like you


You are my love and you have always been my love and you will always

Be my love even if you can’t see

My love.

It will always be yours, I will always be yours, I hope our children turn out like just the perfect mix of both of us.

None of my bad skin or thoughts and none of your acid reflux

Just my strange hair and your beautiful eyes and a mixture of our lips

Kind of like how they’d be created, man

Our lips make a great mix.




My whole life, I’ve always had issues with quantity of effort.

Both of how much I put in and how much I receive.

Sometimes I put in too much; they don’t put in enough. Somehow, that is my fault.

Sometimes I don’t put in enough; they smother me.

Both are my fault.

Everything is my fault.

I had a plan for how to write this and it fell apart, like everything else. I didn’t put in enough effort.

I’m sorry..


The undiscussed

Self harm is pretty glazed over, even in social media accounts dedicated to them. So, let’s talk about some of the real shit that happens.

Like, for instance, take right now. I’m sitting here, and I just got my blades out, looked at them and sat here crying and smashing my own fucking head with my fist to make myself not touch them.

Why? There’s that question that no one wants to answer.

It’s all of it. The blood, the pain, the scars, the rush, knowing you had the strength to hurt yourself.

Then there’s that. The fact that you feel so fucking backwards. Like, why do you need to hurt yourself to feel strong?

I don’t know. Just some thoughts that I feel are probably more common than we realize yet don’t confide in each other about


A concotion of pain and nothingness,

Somehow, impossibly, both

Bubbling, brewing, churning,

Into something red, and thick, and oozey.

They say I’m a bitch,

That I am full of myself

But really, I’m just a girl who needs to bleed,

Who broils like a witch


On nights like this one, I feel unloveable.

Sick to my stomach, sick of myself. Sick of my head, sick of my skin. Sick of trying to feel okay, because I’m not. I’m not. I can be, temporarily. But I’ll never just be “okay”.

And I feel like everyone deserves to be okay. But at the same time, I don’t.

Because of this, I am unlovable. You can’t love someone who is never going to be okay. Who worries beyond belief over the stupidest things. Who hates herself for doing so.

I’m unloveable.


Gentle Passion

Your eyes are soft as they connect with mine,

We’re feelings the same things, our bodies intertwined.

Our bellies, they’re oceans, both calm and crashing

Our minds, racing, but also at ease

Our hearts are melting, yet solid and true

This steady thrill is the home I’ve come to know as you.



Everytime I take a picture

I stare and stare and stare

I wonder if you’ll like it

Or if you’ll even care.

How should I know

Whether or not you do

When often I feel so

Inconsequential to you.

Sometime I take pictures

Of things others shouldn’t see

And I want to show them to you

Just so you’ll look at me.

I never feel better about myself

Than when your eyes are on me.



Sometimes, on nights like this one, when I sob uncontrollably, my options seem very slim. The first one, the best one, that comes to my mind is always, always, always suicide. I don’t think of it as abstractly as that though, no; I imagine in great detail how I would do it. It always baffles me, because I honestly couldn’t care less anymore how my soul leaves my body, if I even believe in souls. Pills sounds fine to me- slow, painful, but still dead. The best option though is probably to make gashes in my limbs that mimic the ones already there, but larger, and deeper, and hitting arteries. Obviously, I’d do this in the bath, because it’s considerably easier to clean than carpet. Ironically, I love baths, and this is where I’d die.

Sometimes, on nights like this one, when I stare at a wall and try to convince myself that suicide isn’t the only option, my brain moseys over to thoughts of the second best option- self harm. It wouldn’t be anything new. Why not? As long as it’s not visible and as long as no one knows, who does it really hurt? I can see it now, experimenting once again with gash depth and length, watching to figure out if it makes the blood gush or spurt, flow faster or slower, bead or ooze. But this isn’t an option: I wrote my college essay on this very subject. I said that I’m getting better, that I know I won’t go back.

So maybe college isn’t an option.



When you think of the word, in a deeper sense, what is the first thing that comes to mind?
For some, it’s falling in love. For others, it’s falling in life. The two are dramatically different, and one person will probably think of the two different sides at multiple different points in their life.
For me, lately, it’s been the latter. I’m falling, and not in a good way. Every step I take, I hit a rock or a bump and fall flat on my back. The breath is stripped from my lungs, the optimism from my head, and the hope from my heart. And when I finally pull myself back up, there’s this crushing weight in my chest and stomach and limbs and pretty much every where. It tugs and drags me down until I fall again, and each time I hit harder.
I don’t know how much more I can take.



I’m struggling to even find the words to write this post. I’ve typed it many times already and deleted it all, so here’s to another try.
I’m struggling in more ways than I think I realized until today. I’ve been sort of pretending that I’m okay, and maybe it worked for a while, on and off.
I had an episode a few days ago, where I got some new blades. I just laid here, the blades on my lap, cried and shook, and tried to not feel pathetic. Not because I would cut, but because I wouldn’t. Not doing it makes me feel pathetic, like I’m not strong enough.
I’m struggling with the fact that my scars aren’t deeper, that they aren’t darker, or more numerous.
I’m struggling to feel normal… to feel okay.
I’m struggling with my self esteem. It seems I can’t feel decent about myself without showing my body to a boy (or girl). And so now when I do that I feel even worse about myself. It’s a vicious cycle.
I’m struggling with a particular boy. I’m not certain how he feels about me, but I actually like him quite a lot. I’m not ready to jump into a relationship but I think we could be good together. If he liked me, and was willing to “talk” to only me. But he’s not, and it kind of hurts my feelings more than it should.
I’m struggling with not feeling good enough. I feel like I’ll never be good enough for anyone, in any sense, in any capacity. Not for my parents; I’ll probably never be a hot shot in whatever career I choose. Not for my siblings; I’ll never be the conservative Christian cis woman that they want me to be. Not for my friends; I’ll never be the most available, the most fun, the most interesting. Not for a love interest; I’ll never be smart enough, skinny enough, sane enough, sexy enough, or lovable enough. They’ll always cheat, or lie, or just leave.
I’m struggling with wanting to put myself and everyone else through dealing with me.