I feel no different, except maybe a little disappointed.
Happy birthdayto me.
I wrecked my mother’s car this week,
My brand new phone malfunctioned,
Some of my best friends are leaving to Europe for a year,
My therapist told me I’m different,
I haven’t cut in a month but I may cut tonight,
I may take all the sleeping pills too,
But I know I wont because I don’t want to die tonight,
I’m curious to see where this will go,
I want to have sex,
Have it in the park,
Under the playground,
and then we’d laugh.
I’m troubled, and disconnected. I’m dead but alive. I feel no different and yet I see a difference in myself that a year has made. I was mentally ill, and now maybe I am more so then when I first started but here I am. Grown as a person, far out of my age.
Hell(p)
I remember this wall. Off-white and containing the many fingerprinted streaks of children like me who had lain in the same bed, having the same thoughts, and wondering why they were there just like me. There was a particularly greasy streak there on the wall, possibly written by spit or sweat that red clearly “hell”.
Hell, this was a living hell wasn’t it? What kid wants to be so fucked up that they land themselves in an asylum laying in a shitty bed that’s no more comfortable than the ground? This is the place that the ruined ones go to when there’s nowhere left, when the sheep herd is no longer safe for them.
There was an eight year old coming into the ward, so I was moved rooms so she could have one all on her own to get accustomed to being there. She was a sweet girl, she had been brought in because she ran away from her shitty family to buy marshmallows from the store. I hope she got them when she left the hospital, because that’s all she could talk about.
I was moved back into her room when she left, because it was too dangerous for me to be sleeping around the others. I looked up at the wall, reminding myself that this was hell and I noticed the last letter had been changed. “Help” it said, and I could hear my heart shatter in my chest, and echo as the pieces fell down my ribs. I’m sorry sweet girl, I’m so sorry.
Cigarette
I was having one of my psychotic days, equip with hallucinations and the world spinning a thousand miles an hour around me. I told the Captain that I wasn’t really in the mood, that I didn’t want to break but we went at it anyways. It’s getting more comfortable, isn’t it? Though it’s still hard to sheath a length inside something that’s been abused before.
My mind is spinning, it wont stop and I almost feel like I may throw up. I am not motivated, I do not feel human. So tonight I’ll put my cigarette out on my chest, and hold the lighter to my palm until my skin pinks and puckers.
