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Yesterday I woke up and knew it was a bad day. I smoked a lot of medical and it made it fucking worse. So I laid in bed and cried awhile. Didn’t tell no one about it. Fake it till I make it, right? Yeah. We gotta be good actresses to not let no one know what the fuck goes on in our swinging up and down creatively-cursed minds.
I think I cried drips of acrylic paint.
It stained all my sheets and made me all different colors.
And then I ran really fast far, far away from my bed… I lasted a few hours.
Been fighting my MS as hardcore as possible. Been running from it. I can’t conquer it. I can’t take my life back. It’s a waiting game that fluctuates my level of production during my inflamed lesions. I cried again in the car on my way home. In front of my friend. Which was even more embarrassing.
I was a messy rainbow on a swing set.
I’ve been running from my pain, from my shame, from my illness and that’s why my content has been shitty lately. I know it has been. I’m trying but the sadness and my physical pain is causing me stress. I haven’t written a half-decent poem in what feels like forever, but has probably been a week.
…I don’t keep time no more.
Nor do I love.
I just float around in my head and run from my depression. Run, run, run.
Run to no one.
But I rather run to no one
than stay in my head
trapped even more in me.
It’s 4AM and I’ll probably post this today. I don’t know. I keep second guessing myself. This irrational self-doubt is crushing my creative work. And this work is my salvation. I can be more honest. Be a little more me. For at least a little while.
-I’m waiting for someone to reach out. To see me. And love me for who I am. But that ain’t gonna happen. ‘Cause it never has. And I know better now. I’m too old for this shit. I’m in no denial. I know what’s going on. Depression is a selfish muthafucka and the anxiety makes me aware of it. I’m aware of every flaw I have. Every mistake. Everything that makes me slightly different. A different shade of blue. Self-critical. Ikr.
So let’s cut away all the bad parts
till there ain’t nothin’ left of me.
-I’ve been waiting to connect to someone. For someone to see me. And accept me for who I am. But that ain’t gonna happen. Because I know me and I know you and I know them well enough. People aren’t that different from each other.
Only pretty broken girls get attention.
-I’ve been waiting for someone to think I’m pretty. For someone to look past my illness. And accept me for who I am, genuinely. Not use it to control me- make me feel like I’m locked with them because they the best I’m gonna get. That gives them the right to use me and my body as they please. But that ain’t gonna happen. I learned fast. Daddy criticized my productivity level. Made fun of me. Smiled when I went catatonic. I remember that. It was a weird sick smile. Proud of himself that he broke me. He did break a big part of me. And I
want that broken part gone.
I’m tired of running from sitting helplessly waiting for salvation. I called God an asshole even though I’m a Christian. I know that’s offensive. Mom got mad at me.