I Am Trying

I’m trying.

I am trying so hard not to feel this way.

I get out of my bed everyday.

I brush my teeth.

Sometimes I even leave the house.

I

Am

Trying.

But it’s so hard.

It’s so hard to go on with my day

Like I don’t feel I’m a complete

Failure.

It’s so hard to even want to get up at all.

Everyday is just a new nightmare,

A new way to screw everything up even more.

But I keep doing it.

I keep getting up,

And eating something,

And going on with my life.

Even when I wish I wouldn’t.

It’s so fucking hard.

And you can tell me I’m strong,

You can tell me it won’t last,

And that I can beat it;

But I am just so 

Tired.

It all takes so much energy,

So much effort,

Just to even look like I’m alright.

Like I’m happy.

And there are days where everything

Isn’t

Alright.

There are days where I don’t beat it,

Where I don’t get out of bed.

There are days when it gets to be too much,

For me.

But I 

Keep

Going.

No matter how much I want to,

No matter how many times I fall down again,

Relapse,

Go back to my old habits;

Keep

Trying.

I’m trying not to feel this way.

I really, really am.

And I know you can’t really

Understand it.

I know you can’t always

Be there

For me.

But sometimes I just need someone.

I need them to hold my hand,

And rub my back,

And not say anything at all.

I just need someone to

Be

There.

I know you want me to feel better,

But this is something only

I

Can

Do.

It’s my fight,

My war,

And I don’t need your help 

In the battles;

I just need you to

Be 

There,

When I can’t fight anymore.

When I can’t get out of bed.

When I simply, can’t.

So just know that I’m trying.

I really, really am.

So you need to try too,

Because I keep going, and

I am

Always,

 

Trying.

This Heart

Breathe, just breathe.

It’s what I tell myself every time my eyes start to burn with hot tears, and my fingers can’t seem to stay still for more than a split second.

Trying to quell the panic is like trying to stop an oncoming storm; you see it coming, and you know the only thing you can do is to sit tight and wait it out, but somehow you think if you stand strong and face it head on, it won’t completely obliterate you.

This heart will not collapse.

The song plays over and over, on repeat while my heart rate speeds up and I can’t control my limbs and everything turns into a shaky mess; it’s pure panic.

It came out of nowhere, the stupid thing, just snapped out of my brain like it won a game of hide-and-go-seek, and now gets to gloat that it won. It always wins, I can try to stop it but it always comes back to get me, to ruin me, to make me relapse.

I give up, I give in…

The song keeps going, calm music, trying to stop the shaking, trying vainly to get me to stop, to not do something I shouldn’t.

Am I doing this again?

Why did it have to be so hard? Why did there have to be things that trigger it, like a strobe light to a seizure, my mind snaps so easily that I don’t know what to do to make it easier on me; I don’t know how to see it coming. And the knife, god that stupid box cutter, always nearby; like my brain is tuned into its presence at all times, I can never lose it.

And I give up…

It’s in my hand and I don’t remember where it came from, I don’t remember picking it up.

I give in…

And suddenly there’s red, but I can’t see it clearly, because everything is shaky and wet; my eyes are stinging with tears and my fingers can’t stay still for a split second and all there is, is red.

We cannot go back…

Jefferson Airplane

I fiddled, somewhat nervously, with the fringe on the hem of my dress, waiting for him to come back into the room.
Barely daring to move around more than my shaking knees already were, I glanced around his apartment; old red carpet, covering most of the room I was standing in, with a giant white coffee table in the centre, made out of an old wooden door. A big brown leather couch was pushed against the far wall, oddly new-looking amongst his paraphernalia of vintage and dumpsite-finds. An old window frame hung over top of the couch, covered with pictures and magazine clippings of things too far away for me to read.
There was a thump from somewhere in the apartment, and suddenly music came on through speakers mounted on the walls, which I hadn’t noticed until then. I heard a creak from behind me, and spun around, fringes swaying, to see him standing in the doorway, holding out scotch glass, filled with amber liquid and ice cubes.
He smirked out at me, causing me to look over at the old window frame again.
“That’s a very nice… Thing,” I muttered, humiliated that I couldn’t have said anything more, intelligent-sounding. Goddamnit, really? Thing? Oh my…
He laughed, striding towards me and holding out the drink. “It’s an old thing my mom had in her basement,” he said, as I eyed the drink, not entirely sure what I was going to be drinking. “I decided it could look pretty neat here. That’s apple juice, by the way.”
He smirked as I realized he caught me sniffing the drink, certain I was about to ingest some form of old-man alcohol.
He looked up towards the speakers, suddenly, as the music switched from some mellow guitar song to, well, another mellow guitar song. Smiling down at me, he took the glass from my hand and set both his and mine down on the oversized coffee table.
“Dance with me,” he proclaimed, holding out my hand to him, as a man’s voice started to sing.
He started to laugh then, as I’m sure what was on my face was a look of blatant horror at the thought of dancing to probably the slowest song of existence. “Don’t give me that look, get over here!”
And with that he grabbed my arm and tried to spin me in a circle, resulting in me desperately trying to get my arm back, and tripping over myself and into his chest. He held up my wrist and grabbed my other hand, putting it on his shoulder, as he wrapped his arm around my waist. He slowly lowered my other arm, holding firmly to my hand, and grinned down at me.
He was too close to me, my cheeks were getting hot and I was suddenly overly conscious of my neckline. Swaying my hand and waist, we started moving around the room, real slow, just like the music.
All I could hear at first was the blood pounding through my ears, drowning out the mellow music and the most likely ragged attempts at breathing I was making. I had my eyes planted firmly on his chest, straight ahead, until I felt his breath on my neck as he started to whisper the words of the song into my ear.
Was it just something, that I made up for fun…
I finally caught my breath, and let it out as I let my eyes slide closed, relaxing to his voice and the music.
I saw you…
I slid my lids open again, looking up from his chest.
I saw you…
He looked down at me, with a small smile on his face.
Comin’ back to me…
It was the last thing I saw as I closed my eyes again and waited for his face to reach mine.

Breaking Point

Why do we always reach a point?

A point where we stop,

Where we break,

Where we can go no further.

Why is there always a limit?

A limit to memory,

A limit to emotions,

A limit on everything around us?

Everything has its expiration date,

It’s last breath,

Last-ditch effort to survive.

But why do we never expect it to hit?

The sudden exhaustion in your legs after running too long,

Feeling we can keep going when they suddenly give out from under you.

The point where your concentration and motivation dies,

When you were at its peak only a moment ago.

Or even the mental breaking-point,

When you’ve pulled one too many all-nighters,

Or had one too many fights, a few too many feelings.

Really, though;

Why do we break?

So often and so hard that we seem

Irreparable.

We become cracked and marred,

To the point where it shows in our eyes,

On our faces,

Even in etched into our skin.

Everyone reaches their breaking point.

The hard part, though,

Is picking up all the pieces yourself,

And trying to fit them back together;

You are a puzzle, 

Even to 

Yourself.

Memories

Memory.

It haunts you worse than ghosts ever could;

It sneaks into your mind in the middle of the night,

Plaguing your consciousness with nightmares

Riddled with the past.

It contains every good thought and 

Terrible event you’ve ever had,

And you can never escape it.

Your memory is your own,

Each is unique,

Some can be warped and changed,

Until you start believing it was different,

But in the end, it all comes back

To you.

You created these memories,

These thoughts and emotions that run through your mind.

It was all you.

Somewhere deep inside your mind,

Your memories hide in the dark,

Waiting for you to feel something

You haven’t felt in a long time;

And when that feeling emerges,

So does every memory you have that shares the same

Emotion.

Memory.

I Know How Hard

I know how hard it is to be with someone who is sad all the time, while you’re happy. It feels like you’re cheating, and like you’re stealing something away from them.

Most of all, it feels like you’re not trying hard enough. It feels as though you’re not giving it your all, and they are trying so hard to be happy but you see the smile fade from their lips and you know they are thinking about it again.

I know how hard it is to be there for someone whose problems you can’t comprehend. It makes your life seem insignificant, all your worries like happy little thoughts that could have crossed their mind on a good day; because they are still sad, and their sad is stronger than your sad. 

And that’s sad.

I know how hard it is to look at them and see that they don’t recognize your hurt, because they can’t see past theirs. It hurts to feel for them and it hurts that they can’t feel for you, that their mind is so full of sad thoughts and feelings that nothing you feel can reach them.

And how hard it is to tell them you can’t do it anymore, to tell them you’re not happy anymore, and to still not see them want to try to keep you, to win you back; they still can’t see past their sadness to recognize that you’ve been sad too.

And that’s sad.

I know how sad it is. I know how difficult and frustrating and disheartening it is to feel unable to make someone happy. And I never want to make someone feel like that. I never want to wake up one day and realize someone I care very deeply for thought I couldn’t care less about them if I tried. I never want to make them feel bad for being happy when I’m still sad, or make them bottle up their feelings so they don’t make my life harder.

I never want that.

But

I do that.