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“You’re like mustard, great in small quantities but a lot of you is… a lot.” - Daisy Ramirez to Aza Holmes in John Greens Turtles All the Wa

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you look around and are met with the crushing realisation that you are alone. It settles on your shoulders, pushing you into the ground. If you thought you could not sink any lower, you are now proven wrong. Oh, and one more thing - you are doing this to yourself.

everything that is wrong with you is your fault.

is it possible to grieve what is still alive? the possibilities that are laid out in front of you- so vividly aware of the fact that you will never take them, never pick up a string and follow it long enough to see where it leads, to grieve something that still stands before you.

you are not alone but god are you fucking lonely.

you know what to do. you’ve read these stories hundreds of times- no1: you are to pick up a string and follow it as far as it can go. once you reach the end you pick up another, and another, and you continue until all the strings you have followed wrap around you in your casket.

no2: you know you will never do that.

when you are 6 feet into the ground and the maggots are eating your heart, the only thing they will taste was your desire to be understood as you understood everyone else.

you can wish that i’m dead but you will never be able to hate me enough to wish it more than i do.

some of you have never been lover girls and it SHOWS

#what even are you if you're not super delusional #like hello?#its giving you lack joy and whimsy #why be realistic when u can be delusional duh #what is life #without imagination #yk i'd prefer hopeful #instead of hopeless romantic #its a little demotivating #relatable

natsuzaki

And of all the people in the world, why did I have to fall in love with you?

You, who does nothing but hurt me?

natsuzaki

I like you better in my dreams that in real life.

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And of all the people in the world, why did I have to fall in love with you?

You, who does nothing but hurt me?

guess who made a substack

thats right. ME

im pretty sure love and sadness can coexist

I hate you. But I also love you.

Unfortunately for me, hearts are not simple enough things to feel only one emotion at a time.

-You seem pretty sad for a girl so in love

Like Aza Holmes and Davis Pickett, love, especially in the face of mental illness, is simply not enough. You live with a demon long enough that it’s become a figure in the periphery of your vision you don’t even notice anymore. Love, no matter how great, can never pull away the words so ingrained in your bones. It’s a common misconception that someone can walk into your life, holding all of the admiration and the devotion and the validation you were deprived of and heal you, but the only thing it does is remind you of how much space there is left to fill. How cavernous the void is, that the demon actually sits in.

A life without love means you never have to realise how lost of it you are, means you never have to accept the fact that your parents were wrong and love is not supposed to be conditional. A life with love means taking a step towards the acceptance that all that happened to you, was not in fact justified.

Sometimes, that can be a hard pill to swallow.

'It’s like sporting with a tamed lion. You tousle its mane and pull its ears but all the time you’re thinking“those claws, those claws, those claws” ' - Hilary Mantel

I thought about this today, how being constantly cautious sometimes isn’t enough to prevent being scratched. It feels as though I am treading on ice around her, one misstep and the ice shatters beneath me, pulling me into it’s cold embrace. It wraps its tendrils around my neck, squeezing out the air. I don’t know how to swim. Other times, I easily rise to the surface, so simply that it’s easy to forget the memory that I ever did get pulled beneath it’s depths. Like false glass beneath my feet, I cannot tell which platform is going to fold upon itself under my weight, which one has the strength to hold me up for another day. Does it even matter? I’ve learnt that sometimes, the lion bares it’s teeth regardless, as I fall into the waiting sharpness of its talons.

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I have never liked my eyes. Deep brown, mud coloured, I would describe them as. Ordinary, boring. You also have brown eyes, and yet I have never described them as the colour of mud, instead, of caramel when the sunlight hits them, of the sweet taste of chocolate smoothing across my tongue. Looking at your eyes, makes me feel like there’s something worthwhile in the brown of my eyes too. It is a funny thing how loving someone can make you love yourself more. How I like the person I am when I talk to you, easy, carefree. People describe interactions with crushes as nerve wracking, as stressful. I will never relate to them. Of all the versions of me that exist, of all the possible mes, the person I am when I talk to you is my favourite.

Stop looking at me like that. Stop regarding me with that kindness I dont deserve. Don't ask me what's wrong when you have your own issues.

Do not extend the hand I am trying to run from.

When I was a kid, I used to cherish my ID cards. Every time I would get a new one from school, I would arrange it next to the old one and stare at it, trying to see how much I had changed in a years time, flipping through them all to watch myself age, much like a montage of my life.

At some point though, looking at them disgusted me. The images of myself younger, of myself happier, staring back at me disgusted me to the point where I gathered them all, dumping them in the bin. I threw them all away in the hopes that they would help me erase myself, from myself. As if throwing them away would erase the memory that they ever existed in the first place. The memory that I ever existed in a form different to the one I was.

I get pulled into these spirals where I cannot decide if anything is real- Am I exaggeration? Am I faking it? Is this real? Are you sure?- , so I check repeatedly. I check and check and follow the spiral. The thing about a spiral is, if you follow it inward, it never ends, it keeps tightening indefinitely. Like a tightening gyre, the walls tighten and close around me until at some point, I am unsure of where the spiral ends and I begin. At some point, I’ve stopped becoming trapped in a prison cell because I have become the prison cell.

I have always hated my name. As a child, I disliked it because I was never able to pronounce it, the harsh syllabled too precise for my tiny mouth to follow. As a teenager, I hated it because it didn’t suit me. Meaning Contentment and Pleasure, I have never thought it reflects me and my never ending hunger for satisfaction. How can a name be so different to it’s holder? The syllables are so harsh, yet so soft at the same time.

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I don’t think I was ever supposed to be attached to someone. I gained my freedom as soon as they cut my umbillical cord. With a metallic snip of the scissors echoing in the cold delivery room, the noise that came reverberating back in my newborn ears was one of liberation. Since that day, I’ve always been autonomous. My mother tells me that I don’t need anyone. Who do you need but yourself? Who do you need but God? I can no longer differentiate between independence or loneliness. Perhaps somewhere along the way, I have stopped trying to. I hold everything in my arms, and if it doesn’t fit, I’ll drag it along with me or put it in my mouth. There is no reason as to why I cannot bear it all. I cannot allow anyone to help me carry the burden either. There is this underlying mistrust that penetrates my mind whenever someone offers- it tells me that they cannot deal with it as adeptly as I can, tells me that they are going to ruin what I have so carefully cultivated.

I watch it distintegrate in the palm of my hands, the ashes slipping through my fingers. I will never give it to someone else on the off chance they will be able to fix it. Even if withering, as long as I am craddling it in the palm of my hands, I have won.

Which is strange, because I think I lost as soon as I stopped letting my mother feed me.

I don't think anything can beat the jarring realisation that you are not as important or valuable to someone as you once perceived. Watching people go through their lives, watching people stay, being there from start to finish as you witness another person settling in and taking your role of "most important".

I have always been first in line, and yet someone else has pushed in.

It is not jealousy so much as, "You are my most important person, it hurts to see that I am not yours." It is not jealousy as much as seeing the same little flame flicker in you as mine, as much as the sad stuff in my chest being okay, because you feel it too. Was it all meaningless then?

You once said, "we understand each other so well even now."

Do we? I don't think I have been able to understand you since a phonecall on a strangely warm, sticky autumn day three months ago.

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