Free Write · Personal · Sleepy · Writing

I saw your face and I cant help but cry

*

*

All I want is for you to be okay, to be better.

To be anything other than broken.

But I know I can not fix you.

I can not try to put you back together while I am falling into pieces.


Please understand I want to, oh how desperately I want to hold you and listen to music and feed you.

I want to laugh.

I want to love you….but I just can’t.


If you could understand the restraint it takes for me.

To go one day then one more..

They don’t have AA for person addicts.


And I wonder how much more you could possibly break me. Surely there is another piece you could take from everything I have worked so hard to build.


I loved you and you told me you were not in love with me.

You left me for another woman and now you want me again.


What happens when you change your mind…again?

My heart is not a pair of socks or a hairstyle. You can’t just throw me out or clip me away when you feel the need. It’s not fucking fair. Or right.


It’s not about hating you, I could never do that.

It’s not about hurting you or seeking revenge.

It’s about loving myself, something I neglected to do and can not seem to manage to do in your presence. 

Creative Writing · Depression · Free Write · Poetry · Pondering · Writing

What am I?

*

*

What am I?

A mass of memories

Firing between cells

Billions of rows of suffering

And multiplying by the wayside


What am I?

A cold person

Walking through the hallway

Down the street

Another face to pass 


What am I?

They called me a woman

Still I took off my shirt

They said the streets are for men

And that I would get hurt


What am I?

A soul wandering

Never satisfied

There is no home for those

That can not find comfort


And I know you will run from me…


What am I?

They asked

A five year plan

Or a family

These are the things you will be remembered by


Not by the quiet firefly

Or by the blades of grass you felt between your toes

Not the wind in your face

On the playground

Or in the field on your own


The sun will be the only one to remember your face

The billions of passerbys

Just stopping to say hello

Free Write · Prose · Sleepy · Writing

What I wrote while half asleep today

I don’t trust people.

I don’t trust anyone fully. Even myself.

In the last week I have been gossiped about and accused of things I did not do. Then told in another breathe how great I am.

Why should I care what anyone thinks anyway?

None of these people really know me.

They  ask for my honesty but run any time I become vulnerable and let a piece of my real feelings show.

You Should be fucking afraid.

You should fear me.

I am anything but ordinary. I feel with my entire soul. I love with all that I am but most never see that.

They see the turned off and muted version of me. Very Few could actually handle any of this. So i let the brave ones in. They Are reckless and suicidal and pull me further down the hole but perhaps that is better than being alone.

Creative Writing · Free Write · Melancholy · Poetry · Reflection · Writing

Mommies 

Today

Conversing with you

I asked about your earliest memory

And you told me about the time you

could not find your mother

How your baby sister cried and cried

So you picked her up in your tiny arms

and carried her through the rooms

You took her down the giant wooden steps

into the dark basement

And your small but strong arms

still held onto your sister

As you continued to call out

You started crying as you admitted to me

That it was your scariest memory

And it made me think perhaps

This is who I am

Generations of scared little girls

Still searching for their mommies


I recall tonight how precious these moments are

As I remember the last time I sat with Grandpa

In that same room

Four hours passed

Without noticing

Without counting the time

Sometimes you just can not know


I have an image of us walking on the beach

I was 13 and we kicked off our sandals

Sand squishing in our toes

We were gone two hours and missed dinner


I will always remember the smell of your home

Mixed with your perfume

And grandpa’s cigarettes

Sometimes I get a lingering scent

As I walk down the street

Or through a hall

The words do not exist

The letters jumble and fade

Like another day

We wash this world away

Creative Writing · Dark · depersonalization · Depression · Free Write · Healing · Hope · Melancholy · Prose · Reflection · Relationships · Self-harm · Survivor · Writing

Moving Day

In march of 2015 I moved what few precious possessions I had decided to keep into this tiny studio apt that I would call home for the next 2 years. I did not have a bed. I threw out my dishes, clothing and books and gave away nearly all my furniture.

My first night in my little apartment was spent full of despair and confusion in my heart and mind. I was more than broken.  At the time I saw myself as hideous and unfixable. Undesirable in every way.  Though I sat troubled in this tiny room with my kitty wondering what possible terrible thing lay waiting for me next, I still had clarity enough to notice the quiet calmness around me. For the first time in several months I felt safe and the ton I had been carrying on my shoulders with chains dragging by my ankles were suddenly gone. I knew it was over and I felt guilty for enjoying that moment because I truly did not want any of it to be real.


I wanted to still be with the man I loved, even though his sickness was literally killing me. I did not want to feel peace without him. I wanted him and I wanted contentment but it was evident that those things could not coexist. Life with him was chaos. Unrelenting emotions at the blink of an eye. Unsuspecting pain and sadness that became a habit. Much like everything else of him, an addiction.


I struggled. I spent hours on that tiny bathroom floor sobbing. Sometimes putting slices in my thigh. Early into this journey it was late on a spring night and it was pouring rain and I just couldn’t be inside anymore. I took off down the street running. Soaking wet and panting. I walked up to the library. Everything was dark and dripping. There was a brick wall with a good ledge for sitting. I climbed up into the bushes and sat behind them. The trees above kept most of the rain off me, still I could not tell the difference between my tears and the earth’s weeping.


I lay there in the dirt for a long time. I do not know how long but my fingers became numb like the rest of me. I should have felt pain but I did not. I did not feel anything.


Around that same time. I had another evening. He called and got my mind all twisted again and I called my mom upset. I felt like I had no one anymore and she was far away and defending the others. I hung up and shut my phone off and climbed up the street and sat on the ledge looking down the cliffside. I could jump I thought. I could hope for a broken neck. Unlikely I considered and I sat looking into the dark tree tops waiting for this to end.


I spent my days working at my neighbor hospital. Watching mostly dead people roam by. It helped take my mind off my own suffering but watching people slowly die takes a lot out of one, one that barely had enough to give.


I never told my best friend that his anger at me pushed me over the edge. I called my boss in the morning and said “I’m not coming into work today. I haven’t slept because I spent the night pondering how best to kill myself.”  It goes without saying really that this did not end well. I panicked everyone and ended up naked on a ER bed with all my personal belongings taken away from me. I laid dead and numb for hours in that bed. I probably should have been admitted but I hated not having clothes and my phone so I played it off and instead got an uppage in my dose of medication and a leave of absence from work.


I never made it back.


My grandfather died a couple months later. I sat on that floor again. I wept until I passed out. I cried for hours, everyday for months. Sometimes the pain of missing him skips a beat of my heart and I find myself literally gasping and grasping at my chest. How does one recover from death? I do not think we ever do. One’s existence changes completely. You wake up a different person.


When you spend hours and days on days alone you learn things about yourself you previously thought incapable of. You forget the sound of your own voice. You have to talk out loud to remind yourself that you still exist. I would punch my skin to insure I was still alive. And indeed, this was all unfortunately not a dream.


Wake up. Go back to sleep. Forget. Remember and do it all over again. Write three papers, two at a time. Remember this is your purpose now. Just survive.


Today I packed up that tiny apartment, that hole I ran to as the world crashed all around me. I remember those days like a story, a novel of some other lifetime. Written and dedicated to me. I will not forget those days anytime soon but I look back as a proud mother. I nurtured myself along the way. I had to because no one else could or would.


Tonight you called me. I noticed a message four hours after. I do not listen. I do not read your words and I know you are waiting. Today I left the place I ran to because of you. Because of you I had to hide and I was begging for your calls.


Today I run only for myself. I despise what you did but I look back with a smile. Today you are begging for my calls. You long for what I used to crave. I go to bed at peace. 

Free Write · Poetry · Pondering · Sleepy · Writing

When you forgot about what you started last night…

*

**

**

Sometimes I drive through the city at night.

There is no reason or purpose.

The smell of night and I listen in silence.

There is a sadness.

A melancholy.

The kind of moment made of whispers that no one else will hear.

I roll down the street.

The city lights in the distance and all I can think of is you.

You.

And the earth turns gently and with reason even though you are not beside me.

I remember your words. Begging for me.

Please please please you tell me.

You say it like I owe you.

Like I am the one who left.

Flashes of half felt and unmet images pass within me.

I see a funeral.

I see a laugh and a boy I fell in love with.

I see the man I begged to come.

All these things that you will never know and did not care to remember.

In the house on the hill, the home in the hole, the rooms built of stone I found you.