Moona-257 - Things Ive Lost On The Way Here

feeling blue. like I tried to reach for something, something I felt my bones pop out of their sockets for, and it never existed in the first place. my nerve endings twisted around your name, my body tangled in your half empty desires. feeling like I’m drowning in the what ifs and unanswered questions. like. am I that easy to forget. did you ever really love me. was any of that real. were the last 8 months really that fucking empty. what a horrible mess we made, blue eyed boy. our love, a graveyard of everything we once promised each other

lover, breathe with me in between all the seconds. the slow rise and fall of your rib cage, and the quiet hum of your pulse underneath crumpled bedsheets. spill your lifeline between those saccharin lips onto my body. time spent apart and together, sighing in the bathtub with our naked bodies and glasses of wine. kiss me here and here and here darling. turn my body into a love letter, sign your name onto my inner thigh.

lavender kisses, sunshine eyes and tight hugs. heaven takes the shape of a boy with blonde hair, long legs and clumsy words. he’s got a smile as soft as his heart. smells like cinnamon and sugar. he’s so sweet in and out and i can’t think about him and not smile, can’t write about him without blushing. his name next to mine still makes my heart skip a beat.

HUNTER SCHAFER for Givenchy at Paris Fashion Week 2019

Tracey Emin

turning lonely into angry and angry into occupied was a coping mechanism for so long for me. I mean, what else was I supposed to do with all this empty space inside me, hollowed from the inside out by my own mind? I tried to lobotomise myself, tried to extract all the bad like a field doctor without supplies on the battlefield: improvising, desperate, bloody- willing to do anything to just make it stop.

What is the word for a building that is on fire and that building is ruined and gone and everyone else can feel the effects of the smoke and the heat and that building is not a building but a person and that person is the i in my poetry, except it’s my real body that aches. The depression was physical just as much as it was mental.

All that destruction, pain, all the hollowness my illness brought. The “I can’t sleep but I’m so fucking tired”, “I can’t come into school today because the world scares me and I haven’t showered in weeks” and “I’m so sad and so numb” and “im sorry I have to cancel on you but I just can’t face the day”. I felt like I hurt people more than I hurt myself.

It’s hard to forget that part of my life, sometimes it feels like all the darkness never left. It still creeps on me, on days where I’m too tired or haven’t eaten. And I still write about it in the present tense. It’s still here. still here.

childhood trauma culture is constantly seeking validation because no matter how many times it is confirmed that you were abused, you can’t help but feel like a fake because others have had it “worse” than you or the abuse wasn’t “bad” enough

“You are not real. You are a dream of a dream.”

— Henry Miller, from Dear, Dear Brenda: The Love Letters Of Henry Miller to Brenda Venus (via violentwavesofemotion)