If my moods are a murder weapon
then yours are a last resort -
like when the phone rings,
and I press ignore. Like when I close the door in your face.
It isn’t my fault that my good moods are laced
with ideas of leaving. And as soon as you see me
for who I am it will be too late. I am running a race
on the line between self-care and selfishness.
Selflessness is praised in a woman, but I know
that it is living suicide. And I don’t want to die.
You say your bad days push me away, and I say yes -
that every text you send should come with a trigger warning.
That I am still in mourning
for every friend I lost to mental illness, theirs or mine,
and that it is fine to hate me, but you can’t
cross the little white lines every day.
And so my own fear is a murder weapon,
but I am too helpless, too selfish
to be a bottle of antidepressants. To the police -
this is my confession. I am the bad guy.
People die at my hands asking for help that I cannot give them.
To my friends, let me mourn the time I lost
staying up crying for you, and inhaling your bad moods like that would somehow fix it.
But pity doesn’t equal love.
Pity is a killer drug, and I need respect. So I will let you hate me
and whatever is left of the meals I puked up
when you scared me, I will swallow with pride now.
I will show you how the selfishness saved my life.
I am sorry.
I hope you’re alright.
u wake up on christmas morning and go downstairs, full of excitement. somebody is stealing all of your christmas presents. it is jesus. “its my birthday, not yours” he hisses menacingly, then runs away with all your gifts in his arms
That’s what you like in a girl: cute and sad, with enough disorders that you could count them to fall asleep. The kind you can show off at parties as the latest broken thing you fixed. Where will you hang your awards for loving someone who can’t walk in a straight line without being supported? Is there room next to your collection of glasses you shatteredby holding them too tightly?
The blood on your hands does not make you a martyr. Do not curse when your hammers do nothing but scar her. Do not use your words to remind her that everybody else would have left by now.
If she could speak, she would tell you: ‘you think it’s beautiful to love somebody as light as me, but you don’t know how heavy I had to be to become this empty.’