27.10.2023- the view from the other side of the oxygen mask

blake kathryn

Janaina Medeiros

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if i look back, i am lost

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@strangeellis
27.10.2023- the view from the other side of the oxygen mask

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Universe
Not just all that is,
but all that was, and will be.
Endless manifold.
01.11.2025- dear alex
it’s a funny thing, mourning someone you never met
every now and then I think about it
I think about you, and us, and him
and the thousand possibilities between us because I know I didn't meet him but I feel we have a lot in common
whenever I need to stay I think of him, and the split between us
knowing I couldn't do it to you again.
knowing you'd be strong enough but l'd be secondary.
youre a flame no matter what, you've learned to survive without oxygen.
you'd make it beautiful. you'd make me into art. I want to see my colours through your eyes.
I think of our split in the pain. I think
I know enough that I could do the same
and nobody who knew me would estimate my plan.
alex chose
brutal efficiency.
and I have learned my lesson.
alex, do you know your name is a poem?
do you know your suicide lays to rest with me every day?
alex,
do you know the last thing you did in life was inspire the half-dead?
cologne and christiania!

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making trash cute <3
medieval wanderings
cute things from europe :33
i havent been working on my poetry journal as much so enjoy some junk journal spam from my holiday at the start of the year! this spread is dedicated to my undying love of european weed vapes <3
as a little girl I never really imagined being older
so the old lady version you ask me to grieve, the children and grandchildren and supposed family who would miss out, that has never really been real
I will never wrinkle or age or explore, expire
I want to enter the ground pristine and whole, a mummified wax figure
smooth and beautiful
made up and perfect
I know I have failed at loving you and I wish I could apologise from the other side
you can have my shampoo and my clothes and my food and plants and artwork
just please don’t be sorry, because I love you and I always have; it never would have changed a thing
I want to miss you and I’ll do it for the rest of my non-existence
I’ll be with you as a ghost, effervescent and translucent, in the corners when you think you’re alone
there’s me, and I promise you aren’t
I saw a boy hang himself once; the bruises on his neck had vanished but part of his skull was gone
he was younger than me, you know; just by a few months
and as I affixed his bandages, eased the pressure on the body that was no longer truly living, I thought of how he bought the rope
I thought of what it would have been like, had he been a friend; it’s not impossible.
did you know that I remember his name? that when you’re in a hospital, working, it’s hard to forget? did he, before affixing the noose and taking his final clean breath of air, know that the girl taking his x-rays would remember? do you know that it hurts your carers too?
I know, and it feels terrible. later in the convenience store, I saw it. $5.99 for the price of your brother sobbing in an emergency department after reviving your unresponsive corpse and winning you a three week ICU stay. a rope is $5.99 and that’s the only difference between me and him. he was brave enough to spend a cent less than six dollars.
I thought: what is the difference between you and me
you are brave
you believed it, you knew it, you stopped deluding yourself like I have been
is it $5.99? is that all it would cost me?
I remember your name, from each time I visited your bedside and held your shoulder, even though you are brain dead and younger than me and you don’t have the capacity to appreciate that, I know and I get it because I think I would like it if someone held me like that
that the barrier between us is thinner than the molecules between your hand and mine, and it’s cold. your palms grow colder by the day.
I’ll watch you, I promise. it’s what I studied to do.

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let me tell you something
when I was 10, my doctor grandmother told my parents I needed to be checked out. she thought my neck looked too big for my age. a ‘goitre’, she called it. I tried not to be offended.
she saved my life once, when I was a baby. “grey and grunting”, is how my mother described me, her firstborn child, when talking about my first hours. fluid on my lungs; I breathed in too early, too eager to get here. I spent some time in the NICU.
when I was 10, my mother dragged me down a hallway and held me down as a phlebotomist jammed a butterfly needle into my tiny veins. it’s a bit blurry, actually, when I try to remember it now.
when I was 10, my grandmother was right. it runs in the family, her blood in me, her disease eating away at my flesh, my body turning on itself. my antibodies are through the roof, I was told. it will happen soon.
when I was twelve, I passed out in front of my whole grade. I was in the back row of the choir, the tallest girl in the grade, and I grazed both of my elbows on the concrete. a teacher carried me out as everyone stared. the nurse said it was the heat.
when I was thirteen I couldn’t breathe. I raised my hand and collapsed on the bench of the netball court and my coach told me I needed to run more. I was unfit. I told my mother in the car and she agreed. I’ve been staying up too late on my phone. it’s been getting hard to sleep. I said it feels like something is pressing on my throat and she looked, frowning at the lump that wasn’t there before.
when I was thirteen I put on my headphones and let them plunge a butterfly needle through my see through skin and milk the vein pumping there, because I’m scared of what will happen if I don’t. I wiggle my toes and turn up the volume and remember it’s no different to when I drew my own blood just like my friend taught me to.
when I was thirteen I was called out of spanish class half an hour after my mother dropped me off at school, fifteen hours after they patched up the puncture wound in my elbow that blossomed bright purple by the morning. she said I needed to go to the doctor. my mother explained in the car, in words small enough for me to digest:
you have graves’ disease. it’s an autoimmune condition. it means your immune system is attacking an organ in your neck called your thyroid, which produces important hormones that regulate your metabolism. your hormones are way out of the normal levels, which is why you’ve been feeling so sick.
when I was thirteen, my mother took me to ultrasounds and blood tests and appointments and scans and I slept and didn’t sleep and cried and didn’t cry and everything turned to shit around me, burning in steaming plumes as I watched, careless to how it all ended.
when I was thirteen, they decided to cut the disease out of me. a five inch incision between my collarbones was all it took to rid me of the growth that was eating away at my life. I closed my eyes in my favourite shirt and woke up bare with an oxygen mask around my face. they fed me a pineapple flavoured zooper dooper, and I posed for the pictures for my mother’s warrior post on facebook.
when I was thirteen they let me go home and I got flowers and cards and for the first time ever, it might have looked as serious as it felt, or at least they way they looked at me felt serious. I shrunk to the size of pea in the starchy hospital sheets and they sent me home the next day, one organ down and wobbling over unsteady feet.
when the nurse asked if I needed a wheelchair to get back to the car, my mother said I could walk. and so I walked.
11.08.24- i knew the end
31.03.2024 - we did collages based on each other
31.03.24- they did a collage based on me
‘delulu is the solulu’ girlies watching me become psychotic bc Its Starting Again👁️👄👁️
18.05.24- autocannibal

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