i dreamt of you last night
the way you touched my scars makes me want to make more
bury me in your vanity mirror
so i can tell you all the things you refuse to see
like how your smile makes me
feel just a little less tired
and the way your big eyes make
me think of a million oceans.
you have the disheveled hair of a
fallen angel and the burning wings
to prove your story.
the darkness talks dirty to me
the whispers curl up around
my little head and plant seeds
of nightmares between my ears.
leather monsters prowl some-
where behind closed eyelids
and then i’m running for my life
in my dreams. lightning kisses
the ground off which my feet lift
and the heady taste of rain on
horizon sticks to my tongue.
anxiety curls its black hands around my throat and buries itself into the molecules in my lungs. it comes out to play when i have an audience and have to hide the shame of hyperventilation. my head spins with the sudden loss of control and snap reversion back to the most human and animalistic reaction to fear, and i can’t even cry because i’m too busy trying to breathe normally with the big A sucking all remnants of rationality dry.
and i am just a bag of bones and blood but you tell me i’m beautiful even though you can’t see the state that i am currently in, naked in my bed with these heavy, crinkly eyes and a throat that hurts from not having enough air. i think i am sinking again, another reversion back to the pit that swallowed me for four years because i’m now tired of climbing. i had forgotten that depression and anxiety went hand in hand, and what godless creatures they are.
here are the things i meant to tell you:
1. I’m 17 and I’m in a state of perpetual state of heartbreak
and my lungs are black from cigarette smoke
2. I’m 17 and I’m paralyzed at the thought of having a future
and my iron wrists have bleed rust for the past 4 years
3. I’m 17 and I’m an insomniac whose eyes are bruised black and blue
and my heart aches with every waking moment
4. I’m 17 and I’m full to the brim with shards of shattered dreams
and my words often get stuck in my throat choking me
5. I’m 17 and I’m acting as if I don’t need anyone but I need you
and my escape is into the pages of love sick poetry
6. I’m 17 and I’m longing to be buried at the roots of an elm tree
and my bones are bruised from beatings I give myself after every mistake
7. I’m 17 and I’m learning about life still so be kind
and my soul still has some searching to do
I will be writing a sociological research paper about the effects of the lyrics in Robin Thicke’s Blurred Lines.
Please reblog this if you are a female who finds the lyrics of this song offensive or upsetting.
IT IS FUCKING AWFUL
in the first year i had my heart broken by a boy i thought i was in love with. he had dark eyes and dark hair, kind of like you but without the bleeding heart and the long eyelashes. he told me i was beautiful with his fingers crossed behind his back just so he could see what i looked like underneath my shirt. while doing so, he reached through the branches of my ribcage and tore it right out of my chest, taking it with him as he climbed out my window. i made myself bleed for two weeks because he made me think that i deserved to.
in the second year i had one of my best friends leave me for someone she had so vehemently hated only a few months before because apparently vodka and identical shades of hair dye are thicker than five years’ worth of friendship bracelets. my back spasms saw me spending many showers curled up on the floor and crying because it hurt too much to get up. my horse blew out a tendon in the first winds of the winter and by spring i had to let my baby go but not without the claw marks of a sick girl who still has the ghosts of the jagged nine letter name carved into her left arm.
in the third year i was uncertain as to whether i would see sixteen or not.
in the fourth year i was determined to make this easter my last weekend. i would plant my soggy bones in the bottom of the bathtub and let the lorazepam turn to acid in my stomach while my arms emptied themselves of everything red and life-preserving. i went to sleep instead.
in the fifth year i found my way back to you, the saving grace that i had overlooked when i was fumbling in the dark because i’d forgotten how to turn the lights back on. it turns out you had been waiting all this time for me to climb out of this pit that had so nearly become a grave, and i just hope to dear god that you, please, don’t go.