borderlinelightning

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

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 

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

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

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

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

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

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 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

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