a parasitic victim to a hopeless system that i was left to get lost in too fucking long ago
trying on a metaphor

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@borderlinelightning
a parasitic victim to a hopeless system that i was left to get lost in too fucking long ago

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shut up
even though sometimes i cannot shut up for the life of me, i still remain tormented by the occasions during which i would do anything to not be shut up. selective mutism is associated with childhood anxiety disorders and therefore carries the connotation that people grow up and consequently grow out of it. i have done nineteen years of growing up yet extremely little growing out of the silence. there is nothing selective about it. i do not pick when to freeze in fear upon being spoken to. i do not pick to share my thoughts only when it is convenient for me or when i can be bothered to. i do not pick. i am not picky like people are picky about foods they dislike. you can push those mushrooms to the side of your plate yet i will never get to push myself to talk when that uncomfortable feeling overwhelms me. this one is for those that long for normality and an absence of judgement. i have knowledge of the words and have the capacity to record them on a page. but this does not mean i can always vocalise them. but i have a privilege to be 'selective' about my 'mutism' right? would you not love to have the ironic reputation of being a linguistic prodigy who can barely communicate themselves?
scrupulous silence
choosing conversation
particular patter
nothing but impoliteness
defined by a hypothetical ignorance
assumed idiocy
i despise being called ‘selective’
when the words are the ones defeating me
yet i never wanted to fight them
you cannot terrify them
out of lips formerly fastened
with an adhesive of alarm
‘lazy’ when i am longing to try
‘stupid’ when i could write it all down
‘difficult’ when i seek simple safety
hopeless apologies
in desperately distressed eyes
and aching attempts to express
i do not want to withdraw
or cause additional stress
but that is all i know
carve my gravestone
with empty words
mirroring my empty attempts
unhappy christmas
this is supposed to be 'the most wonderful time of the year' for many but it can be hard to feel wonderful when getting stuck in your own thoughts. i wrote this one just a couple of hours ago as i sit in a living room somewhere that will never feel like home. but being safe is enough sometimes. i may never know where home is or feel truly at peace around this time of year. this goes out to those who still have to wage wars on the 25th as they do on every other day. and those whose hearts ache a little more around this period. my messages are always open to anybody who may need to talk to somebody but especially at the moment when the atmosphere and company is the most isolating kind. you are not alone and i hope that the new year brings everybody the love and light you deserve in this life.
the weather outside is frightful
complementing the weather in my head
joy to the world
a world excluding me
silent night
begging for a silent mind
let your heart be light
when the thoughts are heavier than ever
hear the angels sing
over the screaming of the voices
happiness and cheer
still hurting and consumed by fear
it does not stop
even with this hypothetical peace
they are singing war is over
they are praising the shift in atmosphere
they are oblivious to the mental hurricane
the battle continues
the fight still drains me
the war is not over
22:57
a battle with my conscience and nothing other than an internal dialogue translated into literature. an inescapable argument wherein the debate can only be concluded with finality.
consumed by the curse of infuriation
subjected to incessant agitation
break the habit today
or the loop will repeat tomorrow
but there is a relentless temptation
to give into to that sickening sensation
break the habit today
or the loop will repeat tomorrow
surrender to the starvation
from an absence of aggravation
break the habit today
or the loop will repeat tomorrow
tested by the expectation
for control and hesitation
break the habit today
or the loop will repeat tomorrow
trapped in rejecting the ideation
of a composed passivisation
break the habit today
or the loop will repeat tomorrow
screaming through the suffocation
destined to catalyse devastation
break the habit today
or the loop will repeat tomorrow
yet i continue to refuse conformation
until i publicise my demonstration
exhaustion
trigger warning: self-harm and suicide
i wrote this one recently after a series of repeated episodes of pure frustration at the futility of my own existence. the title says it all really. fighting with your own thoughts on a daily basis really can be so incredibly draining to the point that even getting up is the equivalent of climbing the tallest of mountains. and i know that i am not alone in craving respite in the shape of an unhealthy distraction from this endless conflict inside. and finality. i always say that ‘life goes on until it does not’ and those who know me are far too familiar with those words because i still have an awful lot of certainty about an imminent end and infinite rest.
i am so tired of being tired
and feeling like i am going fucking crazy
because the pain from the cuts is not enough
to give me stability anymore
i cannot help myself
i am too tired
let me go
because i will not be hurting enough for help
until they know it is too late
let me go
let me be at peace
i am done pretending that i can
beg myself to stay
anywhere is better than here
especially the permanence in the absence
because i will never be strong enough for a presence
one day i will find
the serendipity in my irresponsibility
and a place for me to rest
somewhere far away from here
i really tried this time
i really fucking tried

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façade
trigger warning: suicide
one of the only ever completely rhyming poems i have ever written because i am beyond awful at rhyming so i wanted to share it on here fundamentally for my own satisfaction. there is little narrative behind this one other than a generalised accumulation of my overall mentality at the time, which has not exactly changed in more recent times. apart from the fact that the drugs stop me from crying anymore, swings and roundabouts i suppose.
smiling wide
corrupt inside
bravest eyes
all fucking lies
laugh until i cry
sob until i die
they all ask why
my eyes are never dry
i can never reply
could not even try
yet i always imply
that this will be goodbye
but they always deny
the warning signs did not satisfy
a final sleep does not qualify
for a peaceful lullaby
degrading
another hopelessly stereotypical heartbreak poem written once i had learned that somebody, who had occupied my heart and criminally allowed me to become stupidly attached to them, had actually moved on and found somebody else. i have always had strangely intense attachments to strangely specific people since i was young, where these attachments have defined my entire life and its purpose and destroyed my sense of worth entirely upon such relationships breaking down. this was written at a time of constant malice towards moving on even though i was stubbornly insistent that i did not want this person or their love anymore, i just never wanted them to love somebody else. so i channelled this anger into writing when i came to the conclusion that it was over for me, but the novelty was beginning for another person who probably deserved love more.
i hope that your hands
burn when you touch her.
that you corrupt her body
just as you corrupted mine.
poisoned my mind
left me behind.
ignited my fuse
yet stamped it out.
until there was nothing
left of me.
superficiality
trigger warning: self-harm and suicide
this is one i wrote just a week or so ago. the past couple of months have been really tough on my mind which has catalysed the ways in which i have been tough on myself. i was 103 days self-harm free before i entered the vicious cycle once again. i am yet to make it to more than 5 days without a relapse, which is terrifying because i have progressed from the odd scratch as a child to this becoming routine. but the actual process does not terrify me anymore, in fact i was hysterically laughing yesterday while i bled. but it will always be superficial to anybody who has even the slightest amount of power to influence my own self-perception. i dealt with the comments regarding the invalidity of my injuries from a really young age and had become so accustomed to them that i never questioned it. i then went years without opening up about hurting myself out of the fear that somebody would find out and be disappointed, or worse, everybody would lose their trust in me. not that they have much in me at this point anyway. but i am trying to fight to get myself back now. even when i am not sure i want to. and so i opened up again. brought it to the surface. and for some reason never expected to hear comments about superficiality ever again. yet i overhead somebody i have, or maybe even had by now, a lot of trust in, telling somebody that my injuries were superficial. and it all came back. the invalidity. there is a rogue chance that this person may see this, and all i am saying is that if you are reading this and feel like you have something to be guilty about, then i am probably talking about you. and this poem describes the invalidity that these types of people never fail to remind me of.
i cannot count on my fingers
the number of times that i have heard
superficial surface scratches
words that sting more
than the blade against my skin
i cannot stop until it looks
even half as bad as i feel
so i buy sharper blades
i push down harder
forget how to breathe as i bleed
usually it takes a single wipe
today it took four
and half a roll of tissue
even then it never quite stopped
dripping onto the parts of me
that could fool them into thinking i was clean
i will never be clean
until death forces that upon me
and i will keep buying sharper blades
keep pushing down until i feel finality
because today i cut too deep
yet i was not scared
i was ready to accept my fate
anonymous farewell
trigger warning: mentions of suicide
this is possibly the most difficult of my existing poems to publish simply because it predominantly focuses on somebody else and their untold experiences. i have always wanted to share this one because i think one of the most painful thoughts somebody can have is that of taking their own life yet it can be even more painful to face that and ask for help. from both first-hand experience of suicidal thoughts and losing those i love to such thoughts, it hurts to know that there is still not enough being done to protect those at risk. a simple question enquiring about a day or small-talk about the weather can make a world of difference to somebody whose world is crumbling before them. there is little that can ever make the feelings of solitude disappear completely but there is always a time to show even the slightest amount of compassion. especially as you could be completely unaware of what those around you are battling. the narrative of this poem is that of a young boy who took his own life by jumping in front of a train i was travelling home on one day. this boy was just 14. there were warning signs yet these were ignored by educational institutions that argued he was not considered to be of 'high risk' despite being known to frequently mention concepts of suicide and death to friends and struggle with his anxiety for which he was lost in an endlessly disorganised and overworked system of waiting lists and insufficient support. it is not enough. but unfortunately it is nothing but a fact that it may never be enough. until then, check on your loved ones. it could mean more than you think it does and fight for the help you deserve to recover.
i never knew you
but i knew how you felt.
could not help but feel guilty
for the smile i had worn all day
held my happiness like a placard
boasted my optimism.
i still remember everything
every minor detail
from hating those insensitive passengers
to the despair on those desperate faces.
could not help but hurt
for the boy i had never met
his family and their aching hearts
the friends whose lives fell apart.
when the train stopped
we laughed and fantasised
each unbelievable possibility for our delay
all possibilities besides your fate.
when we realised
we tuned into the graphic speculation
of the gossiping girls adjacent
and those who never understood your pain.
when we were escorted away
could not help but shed a tear
one amongst the ocean drowning us
a shock nobody expected but should have noticed.
i never knew you
never even heard your name
until the inquest flooded
the sickeningly sensationalist media.
i never knew you
did not truly understand your demons
but when you laid your life on those tracks
i knew how you felt.
time traveller
i never realised how difficult it would be to figure out which of my ramblings to post each day but then i realised that they will probably all surface eventually regardless. therefore i decided to let my flatmate choose a random number between 1 and 43 according to the pages of a document on my laptop and so she picked 21. i wrote this one a while back now after reading a poem relating to a similar concept of missing a past that you never quite understood nor actually experienced. the term 'anemoia' has stuck with me ever since because this really resonates with the idea that i am in a constant state of missing feeling okay and not having any concern about feeling comfortable in my environment. i remember the past through rose-tinted glasses to some extent simply because it has only gotten worse as time has progressed yet this piece still attempts to somewhat capture the fragility that accompanies the absence of security and stability. sometimes life just gets too heavy and you are allowed to miss the times when it felt lighter.
nostalgia makes me weak
when i long for that time just
seven years ago and
everything seemed so much
simpler because my school
breaks were not devoured by
three overdue assignments and
two essays to write out but
all i had was
one desire to live
and simply breathe
without interruption.
nostalgia makes me weak
when 3am was my favourite
time of the day and not
because it was that kind of silence
where everything feels lonely enough
to focus on the letters on the screen
but because it was a time
when everything felt lonely enough
to let me satisfy my
one craving to live
and simply breathe
without interruption.
nostalgia makes me weak
when i remember that it was not
perfect but it was perfect enough
for me to idealise that time just
seven years ago and
i had my insecurities but feeling
‘just good enough’ was good enough for me
because now it is never going to be close to good enough
and i will no longer enjoy 3am out of
fear that i will become further from the
perfection toxically indoctrinated
into my once naive mind that
lived and breathed without fucking interruption.

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trusting my trust issues
feels strange to be publishing my poetry on the internet for the first time and it took a lot of scrolling through the depths of my own archives to decide which to share first. so i picked one with probably the utmost relatability since heartbreak is pretty universal i suppose. this was written as a sequel to a really gross attempt at a love poem i wrote for somebody shortly after we broke it off back in 2021. this was somebody that i genuinely believed would love me for the rest of my life because i was incredibly naive and clearly did not realise that i had the capacity to scare people off so intensely. i do still miss them more than i let on and my friends hate when i mention this person because i know it was not actually as perfect as my head tells me it was. so now that i have run out of frustration towards them and simply just need them to not be a stranger anymore, it only felt right to choose this as the introduction to my turbulent emotions.
insecurity consumed me
chewed me up and
spat me out
the others corrupted
the remains of my body
while their hands burned my paper skin
i think i know that
you are different
but i am terrified that
you may end up the same
put my fucking mind at ease
tell me that we are okay
intentions are not always clear to me
a static television screen
in my mind you are everything
but i guess what is truth
does not always mirror that of a dream
nothing is ever as it seems
you knew that i would fall quickly
too quickly
uncontrollably
you knew that i would be attached
too attached
unconditionally
you know that i am terrified
too terrified
to ever say what it is i mean
i guess what is truth
does not always mirror that of a dream
i am not optimistic enough to believe
that everything is ever as it seems
chapter one
i have contemplated this for a while now but today is the start of something relatively out of my comfort zone. and i want to make it apparent from the start that i am a real person with real experiences so complete anonymity was out of the question. my name is abbie and i am nineteen years old. i could have just completely made that up but i can assure you that i did not because as much as i wish that i was just a minor character in some twisted television series sometimes, i am very much real. too real for my own liking most of the time. at the moment, i am dragging myself through the second year of a degree in linguistics and english language. emphasis on the 'dragging' because a whole lot of it is not going to plan right now. i have struggled with my mental health for as long as i can really remember, particularly with generalised anxiety disorder and depression yet i am in the process of investigating a likely case of complex ptsd. the past explains a lot more than i thought it did. sometimes ignorance is bliss but most of the time it just inhibits the understanding of answers i need in order to recover fully. even when they are not the answers i particularly want. it is harder to comprehend that my brain works completely differently to a lot of others' than it is to simply be told to take antidepressants for the rest of my life and get over it. but it is a journey i am working on. and by no means at all is it going to be a simple one, so i suppose here i am writing some silly little words on a silly little tumblr page like an emo in 2014. except i probably could be mistaken as a twelve year old obsessed with fall out boy to this day. some things never change. i hope that my rubbish excuses for poetry and other irrelevant ramblings can offer somebody out there some respite. i will be including trigger warnings at the top of each post but as somebody who seems to be a bit desensitised to those myself, if you are affected by or feeling anything similar to what i write about then i promise my messages are always open. nobody deserves to feel as though they are in the pain of existence alone. so even if my writing offers you absolutely zero sense of comfort that things will get better someday (because to be honest it probably will not offer anything of the sort since i write what is on my mind and that is not always pretty) then i hope that at least you know that you are not insane and there are other people out there waging the same wars.