o Love
and you were there
o Love
o Love
raw and scathing, relentless and arterial
o Love, alive.
Good and
Never bad, right? Right?
o Love
o Love
o Love
Small memory, blind memory
o Love
o Love
o K
You win
o Love
you win.
Love
tired and constant.
o love
o
love.
hello again.
he said.
forever.
Saturday, June 30, 2018
Monday, June 11, 2018
A Brief Expression of Gratitude
At no point have I forgotten that I am both loved and lucky.
At no point have I been ungrateful. Thankless.
I am blessed with physical health. Beauty. Ability, and most importantly, people who love me as I am.
I am more burden than I am worth, yet there you are.
At the drop of a hat.
At the buzz of a phone.
You've saved me.
If I do anything else with this life, let it be repaying you. Not out of a sense of debt, but only so you know I love you as much as you've made me feel loved, safe.
At no point have I been ungrateful. Thankless.
I am blessed with physical health. Beauty. Ability, and most importantly, people who love me as I am.
I am more burden than I am worth, yet there you are.
At the drop of a hat.
At the buzz of a phone.
You've saved me.
If I do anything else with this life, let it be repaying you. Not out of a sense of debt, but only so you know I love you as much as you've made me feel loved, safe.
Saturday, June 9, 2018
the Wait
The empty stare.
World unseen.
Only the constant hum and weight of absence. Regret.
A thought of autumn and then autumn.
More days.
Hours. All the same.
Winter.
Spring.
Creeping and hollow summer and the empty stare.
Waiting out the clock.
Cut off the frostbitten fingers and hope the hand can be saved.
Hope the hand can be saved.
The empty stare and the weight of absence.
The mirror and hide my face in the beard. Under the sunglasses.
Every love on the television.
Every loss.
They all belong to me.
They all wear your face.
Cut off the frostbitten hand and hope the arm can be saved.
More days.
More hours.
Each grinding minute at the base of my skull.
Keeps me awake and my eyes hurt.
Lay in the dark.
My skin sweats and itches against the sheet and I shift in the bed and my brain is on fire.
Spinning. Tumbling off in the night.
My throat is tight and my eyes burn and the constant hum and weight of absence. Regret.
The morning light and get out of bed.
My eyes burn.
The mirror.
The empty stare.
More days.
More hours.
They all wear your face.
World unseen.
Only the constant hum and weight of absence. Regret.
A thought of autumn and then autumn.
More days.
Hours. All the same.
Winter.
Spring.
Creeping and hollow summer and the empty stare.
Waiting out the clock.
Cut off the frostbitten fingers and hope the hand can be saved.
Hope the hand can be saved.
The empty stare and the weight of absence.
The mirror and hide my face in the beard. Under the sunglasses.
Every love on the television.
Every loss.
They all belong to me.
They all wear your face.
Cut off the frostbitten hand and hope the arm can be saved.
More days.
More hours.
Each grinding minute at the base of my skull.
Keeps me awake and my eyes hurt.
Lay in the dark.
My skin sweats and itches against the sheet and I shift in the bed and my brain is on fire.
Spinning. Tumbling off in the night.
My throat is tight and my eyes burn and the constant hum and weight of absence. Regret.
The morning light and get out of bed.
My eyes burn.
The mirror.
The empty stare.
More days.
More hours.
They all wear your face.
Friday, June 8, 2018
Home Keys and Stimuli: Suicide
I tried unsuccessfully to kill myself four times in the last year.
A few celebrities have found more success (as celebrities do) recently, and the topic has come up more than it used to.
More attention.
More "sympathy".
More "love".
Roll my eyes.
I'm glad more celebrities are killing themselves.
Not necessarily that people are getting to the point that they see no escape beyond death, but that people with influence are screaming out
HEY THIS IS A FUCKING PROBLEM
THIS WORLD
THIS LIFE
I don't know every reason. I don't pretend to understand.
I have nothing but empathy for these people, because, at the end of the day, they're people. You, me, them. People. But, I do understand influence. In 2016 there were 44,965 suicides. 44, 960 of them were people unworshipped. Unnoticed.
I would have been right there with them.
I don't care about being worshipped.
or noticed.
And that's what bothers me.
I just want off. I just want out.
I'm done.
Don't take this the wrong way.
It isn't a note. It isn't a goodbye. I have love. I have a world I want to experience. That doesn't mean it doesn't sit in my chest.
In my experience, a lot of people don't understand that.
Depression, mania, this... this world. It isn't a mood. It isn't a choice. It isn't a trend. It's life. It is our experience. We have happiness. We have joy. We have love. There is a vacuum though, at the center. Pulling, dragging, eating. Constant and thirsty and relentless. We ignore and we live and we try to live, but there it is.
I see a surprising and hilarious amount of people online posting the suicide hotline numbers. Retweeting messages of reaching out. Finding help. Being saved.
And I find it fucking appalling.
You don't think we know those resources are there?
You don't think we know people can talk us down?
Of course we do. WE are ignoring them. Are they going to fix our imbalances? Are they going to pay our debts? Are they going to shift the world into accepting we are the people we are?
No. They are band-aids.
Post the number. Let your followers know you are a good person. Don't message us though, right...? You know who we are.
You know who we are.
Like, I said, this isn't a letter. This isn't anything.
I just want you to be happy.
That is all I want.
Please be happy.
A few celebrities have found more success (as celebrities do) recently, and the topic has come up more than it used to.
More attention.
More "sympathy".
More "love".
Roll my eyes.
I'm glad more celebrities are killing themselves.
Not necessarily that people are getting to the point that they see no escape beyond death, but that people with influence are screaming out
HEY THIS IS A FUCKING PROBLEM
THIS WORLD
THIS LIFE
I don't know every reason. I don't pretend to understand.
I have nothing but empathy for these people, because, at the end of the day, they're people. You, me, them. People. But, I do understand influence. In 2016 there were 44,965 suicides. 44, 960 of them were people unworshipped. Unnoticed.
I would have been right there with them.
I don't care about being worshipped.
or noticed.
And that's what bothers me.
I just want off. I just want out.
I'm done.
Don't take this the wrong way.
It isn't a note. It isn't a goodbye. I have love. I have a world I want to experience. That doesn't mean it doesn't sit in my chest.
In my experience, a lot of people don't understand that.
Depression, mania, this... this world. It isn't a mood. It isn't a choice. It isn't a trend. It's life. It is our experience. We have happiness. We have joy. We have love. There is a vacuum though, at the center. Pulling, dragging, eating. Constant and thirsty and relentless. We ignore and we live and we try to live, but there it is.
I see a surprising and hilarious amount of people online posting the suicide hotline numbers. Retweeting messages of reaching out. Finding help. Being saved.
And I find it fucking appalling.
You don't think we know those resources are there?
You don't think we know people can talk us down?
Of course we do. WE are ignoring them. Are they going to fix our imbalances? Are they going to pay our debts? Are they going to shift the world into accepting we are the people we are?
No. They are band-aids.
Post the number. Let your followers know you are a good person. Don't message us though, right...? You know who we are.
You know who we are.
Like, I said, this isn't a letter. This isn't anything.
I just want you to be happy.
That is all I want.
Please be happy.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)