mental illness

Poetry, Uncategorized, Writing

I haven’t felt safe in over twenty years

That feels strange to admit

There’s a casual acceptance to a lifetime of fears

“Oh, come on, get over it.”

Like,

Maybe I don’t want this but I don’t know the alternative

Like I’ve been blinkered and I can only see straight ahead

It tells me this is the only way to live

“Stay home, stay safe, stay in bed.”

Traitorous to the last I tell myself it’s better

To live a life that’s infinitely lesser

Because I can’t breathe and I want to go home

But what is a home if you still feel alone?

Poetry, Uncategorized, Writing

I’ve known you all my life

Grown used to the way your skin ripples and twists

How your face looks just like mine

Your claws digging into my throat as you hold me a little too tightly

The way you rub my back as I bend over and spill my guts

Telling me, well, what would be worse?

To survive this or to die?

Until it is easier to not, to not want things, to not want to try

You took and you stole and you filled me with chemicals

And like, people say you should let go of things that hurt you

But darling, what am I without you?

Who could I be?

Poetry, Uncategorized, Videos, Writing

watch me read it here: https://youtu.be/N-LGWlw9bYw

i read a line in a book recently
that said “this is what better looks like for me”
and better wasn’t really best it was more like surviving
than thriving
you see –
sometimes you don’t get to choose the path less travelled
or even the path with handy signposts and friendly guides
sometimes it’s hard enough to reach the starting line
let alone to ramble
whilst others wade through mud and rivers
filling their boots with cold and wet
laughing at nature and how the world makes them feel alive
there are those of us who stay inside
and start to forget the sun on their skin
or the way it felt to meet somebody new without pretence or expectation
when the noise overwhelms
and there’s too much to see
because the world is sharp edges, too much for me
when late night car rides and half hour conversations
are as much as this muddled brain can bear
when you look for me and find that i’m not there
when you cut a hole inside my chest and tunnel past my spine
and i ask if you can see through me now
as i bleed this unholy wine
you don’t reply because you finally see
this is what better looks like for me.