run until you feel your lungs bleeding / when i was young i heard voices

strangely dismayed about things that never change
strangely uncomfortable with the weight of things
i can't run anymore because it makes me want to die

here i ran nowhere just to get nowhere
just to make it hurt and feel less hollow
there were things i didn't want to think about then
and now i'm here and they're all i can hear

you stay away long enough to come back
and know you didn't get any better anyway
and it was all an illusion
because when you hate yourself is when it's real

and how did you ever survive this kind of life
when the life you've had recently has not been easy
and you come here and you want to die
because it is so much harder just to breathe sometimes

and you didn't even run

(the railway station announcements remind of long summers
made of cigarettes and midnight walks and endless breakdowns
and restless legs in a hot train and the smiling sun
that i carved on my skin
and the people)

you can wear a hug and it's great

i have a hoodie that's like a hug
it's old and worn and too large by far
i wear it when i'm tired or lonely or at a loss
when i don't know how to breathe
or how to keep the heart beating

it pulls my bones closer together
helps the insistent itch on my wrists settle down
it helps me hide from feeling like nothing
and too much, both at once
and breathe in and out
one more time

i don't like the colour
but i don't really care
because it makes me feel a bit less like
a jigsaw puzzle in an earthquake
shaking, trembling into complicated pieces

it helps me stop and breathe and think
and feel like somehow things will work out
like somehow, being as i am
i won't let my life fall apart
and everything will be just as it should
for someone a bit less like me

i fall so hard

clawing my way up the walls of the dried-up well again.
fingers bleeding. that's okay. makes it real.
stuck in a sort of state of mental stillness in a time
where that kind of thing is no good
but hey.
nights not slept. that's okay.
some days, most days, are better through a haze.

where am i? where was i?
always broken at the wrong time
i find myself sitting in dewy grass in the moonlight
sweating and crying, and nothing feels real.
i find myself in places where we went together
find myself admiring rusty locks and boarded-up windows
grey skies and muddy footprints
motorways.

i find myself leaning against the window
and wondering, what if it broke under my weight
what if i lost my balance and fell ten stories down
and what then

i'll just sit here and breathe for now.
waiting for someone
something
whatever
to distract me.

relapse

the way you go from crying
because it doesnt hurt enough
to crying
because you can't stand the pain

wine and emotions

ignorance is bliss
pretending is basically an alternate heaven on earth
imagining things makes everything better
and refusing to see them paints rainbows on the insides of your eyelids
squeezed
shut
from the world

as long as i don't think about this it's not real
and therefore has nothing
to do
with me

i don't care about you
i don't
that's what i dedicate my waking hours to
i don't think about you
never do

seeing you makes my heart grow wild in my chest
traps my breath in a bell jar
and i lean against a wall to think about how i
don't
care
about you

miss too many people, regret too many things

This is where I come these days when I feel lost and alone and hopeless, when there's something in my throat that won't budge, even the wine won't wash it away. This is where I come when my hands start sweating and my grip starts slipping and I know I won't last much longer but there is no crash mat because there are no crash mats or chalk bags in life, just sweaty fingers and rocky terrain and that's scary.

This isn't a cure for my shivering scared weak useless mind. Nothing ever is. Not climbing up a wall or writing down the words that come to mind or a playlist made of all the saddest songs I know. Not pining after anyone. Not this glass of wine that I should not be drinking now. That is so close to turning into a bottle instead.

Why do I find it so hard to care?

I didn't answer.

I miss things I never had. Do people do that, or is that why I'm so wounded all the time? Is that why I find it so hard to move forwards, because I can't find myself in the now? I miss things I never had, and I dream them in detail and beat myself up for not letting them happen. Do people do that?

Sucks, anyway. I don't know why I'm sad this time. Even my words seem a bit disjointed. Don't they always. I don't know what I am doing. Can't relate to this person I seem to be. I was a happy child. How did I grow to be an adult like this, and will I ever be any better?

and that's when i hope i could shut up, silence the pessimist, just be your friend

late night, like downing a pint of vodka the scraps of emotions i still possess

I will keep on reading your words until the end of eternity and then some.
It might be the only thing of you I will ever get again.
It might be that we will never and I do not want to finish thinking this sentence
but it creeps up the edges of my mind nonetheless
and I am scared.
I will not run from your words, though
I find solace in them both in pixels and in my mind
and still in my mirror
left there graciously by people who said,
I think you should decide.
Because it is clear to them that it is not easy for me.
This kind of things are never easy for anyone
and I hurt easily, I care easily, and they know.
I will keep on reading your words as long as it takes for me to find you again
or then until your essence starts fading like this gaping strangeness in my chest
where there used to be, should be, must be
something
I know. It has happened before
and now I know it can happen
and I am scared.