Sta.sh
april 1st
i just sat there
words lodged in my throat
eyes burning with tears that
i wasn't going to let escape
while you broke
into pieces i couldn't fix.
april 2nd
you gave me stained fingertips
the same colour as your belly.
i still dont know if its from
your poorly rolled mentol's
or if its the colour of
the deepest regret
i've ever felt.
april 3rd.
i tried to write this poetically.
with oceans and stars
and metaphors
so large i lose
connection.
but i can't
some things just
aren't poetic.
april 4th.
you're body was
black and blue
but oh god
there was colour.
there was colour.
and colour means life.
right?
even if its clinging on
by its
fingernails.
april 5th.
i think i've broken
in half
two clean
separate parts
one determined to love.
the other begging to die.
april 6th.
'you're not in this alone'
yes.
yes i fucking am.
now go away.
april 7th.
can i please just
curl up
and cry this
all out
let it soak into
the sheets
and even if i
have to burn
everything
i will
cause i want this gone.
april 8th.
please.
dont open your mouth again.
you are essentially an oxygen thief.
april 9th.
1. happy birthday.
(go eat cake)
2. go fuck yourself.
(i hope you choke on it)
april 10th.
i have lost this battle.
but oh
i am not losing this
mother fucking war.
this is not the time
or the fucking place
to die.
april 11th.
it was just a trickle to start with
and it barely even made my
knuckles crack.
but it started to gush
and you lost all colour.
suddenly my chest hurt
and as you fell to the floor
i wished i felt something
other than
overwhelming guilt.
april 12th.
pick up the god damn guitar
and play something that
is worth listening to
then i might
start to give a shit.
april 13th.
unsure if this is you
letting go of
13 years of black
and finding something
new or if this is your
daughters influence
or if this is in fact
a mental break down.
either way
i'm laughing at you
not with you.
april 14th.
you have undone
years of good work
in a matter of days.
well fucking done.
you disgust me.
april 15th.
i am not alone.
& this is comforting.
i just sat there
words lodged in my throat
eyes burning with tears that
i wasn't going to let escape
while you broke
into pieces i couldn't fix.
april 2nd
you gave me stained fingertips
the same colour as your belly.
i still dont know if its from
your poorly rolled mentol's
or if its the colour of
the deepest regret
i've ever felt.
april 3rd.
i tried to write this poetically.
with oceans and stars
and metaphors
so large i lose
connection.
but i can't
some things just
aren't poetic.
april 4th.
you're body was
black and blue
but oh god
there was colour.
there was colour.
and colour means life.
right?
even if its clinging on
by its
fingernails.
april 5th.
i think i've broken
in half
two clean
separate parts
one determined to love.
the other begging to die.
april 6th.
'you're not in this alone'
yes.
yes i fucking am.
now go away.
april 7th.
can i please just
curl up
and cry this
all out
let it soak into
the sheets
and even if i
have to burn
everything
i will
cause i want this gone.
april 8th.
please.
dont open your mouth again.
you are essentially an oxygen thief.
april 9th.
1. happy birthday.
(go eat cake)
2. go fuck yourself.
(i hope you choke on it)
april 10th.
i have lost this battle.
but oh
i am not losing this
mother fucking war.
this is not the time
or the fucking place
to die.
april 11th.
it was just a trickle to start with
and it barely even made my
knuckles crack.
but it started to gush
and you lost all colour.
suddenly my chest hurt
and as you fell to the floor
i wished i felt something
other than
overwhelming guilt.
april 12th.
pick up the god damn guitar
and play something that
is worth listening to
then i might
start to give a shit.
april 13th.
unsure if this is you
letting go of
13 years of black
and finding something
new or if this is your
daughters influence
or if this is in fact
a mental break down.
either way
i'm laughing at you
not with you.
april 14th.
you have undone
years of good work
in a matter of days.
well fucking done.
you disgust me.
april 15th.
i am not alone.
& this is comforting.
april 16th
I am not okay that I'm okay with it.
I guess that means I wasn't okay to begin with
april 17th
Social norms and expectations
(Both mine, and other peoples)
Will be the death of me
april 18th
Talking about anxiety makes my anxiety peak more than I can ever predict
or anything ever has before.
Except you.
You shortened my life by at least three years
april 19th
You're not real.
you're not real but I am still going to fling myself off tall places into an ocean of memories, and I'm still going to run headfirst
into bad ideas like their traffic.
And I will still expect you to save me.
I am not okay that I'm okay with it.
I guess that means I wasn't okay to begin with
april 17th
Social norms and expectations
(Both mine, and other peoples)
Will be the death of me
april 18th
Talking about anxiety makes my anxiety peak more than I can ever predict
or anything ever has before.
Except you.
You shortened my life by at least three years
april 19th
You're not real.
you're not real but I am still going to fling myself off tall places into an ocean of memories, and I'm still going to run headfirst
into bad ideas like their traffic.
And I will still expect you to save me.
on i call it fucking,
