Go home and make peace with your father.
Go home and talk to your mother the way she longed to speak with her own.
Go home and tell your sister that she was right and you are sorry.
Go home and tell your brothers that you love them and you couldn’t do it without them.
Go home and love those cats before you cannot.
Go home and cherish your lover without fear of loss.
Go home and change yourself.
Go home and heal.
Go home and create a safe place.
Go home and feel at home.
And as soon as you can, get the hell out of there.
I’m anxious all the time. I feel so unsafe everywhere–not in a suicidal way, never that way–I’m overwhelmed. I wake up too early every day. Most days I wake up sad. I try not to think about it, I do things that make me temporarily feel better, but I don’t forget. My brain never stops. I want to find a place where it isn’t like this, I want a home, I want to enjoy the people I’m around, I want to fix..everything. I never get it done. I don’t have a job. I’m not going to school. I spent more money, I have no money. I waste days driving in circles, going nowhere. It used to make me feel better.
How do you stop dwelling in your own tragedy? How do you fix your broken house? How do you help yourself? Have I ever been safe?
Every day I lose myself to these questions–and countless others. Locked on and detached. I’m constantly shaking. I look around and I see nothing–outside, the trees are symbols of something I cannot have, roots. Inside, sad broken people of my family and thousands of meaningless objects that fail to fill the space, no shelter. My friends are beautiful people. I know they are sad, perhaps lost. We can’t save each other, and we know it. I watch us laugh, and places I cannot describe ache. This isn’t enough. Nothing has changed. I see more now, it hurts more now.
I go to bed far too early. I get in various beds that do not feel like mine, and I am sad. I think of all that I wish for, I think of who I am, I think of who I wish to be, I think of people I will never know again and I think of how I failed them, I think of my fears, I think of the lovely human kissing my forehead and saying “sweet dreams” and for a moment I know peace–the door closes and I am a broken child, afraid of life. Afraid to live. What am I going to do? How do I live confined within myself? Where do I go? Can someone else help? How do I fix myself? How do I fix my house? What else can I think about? Why won’t it go away? Why would anyone want to die when life is so beautiful? Why doesn’t my life feel beautiful? How do I still want to live so desperately? How do I live without feeling so desperate?
I fall asleep. The earth spins and we recognize that our calendars have declared another day–a fresh opportunity to ruin the bigger picture and my overall happiness by becoming immediately and continuously panicked by the thought of time passing and nothing changing, except the color of my hair.
“I think of my brain as a huge wall of books. To get information I have to climb up the ladder, find the right book and read it. Sometimes one might accidentally fall off the shelves and flip to a page on the ground–that’s when I get random knowledge or memories.” – The one who loves me.
I wish I had a shrinking submarine. I want my brain to be a library instead, teach me how to clear my head.
I woke up very sad. He held me and spoke clever things, while I was sleeping he drew this. (It even says Mr. Sanders above the door!) I’m not so sad anymore.
Such a fine line.
No one can remember where it starts, only when they first caught sight of it.
It’s a very simple line, straightforward.
You are taught and told not to cross it. Perhaps you do, cross the line, but only in thought–so that’s alright–it’s not as though you’ve stepped any. No closer or farther back, no, just imagining. Does the line change? Heavens, yes. The line will shapeshift and bend, forming canyons and mountains the likes of which you’ve never seen. But alas, we do not cross it. Some braver than others, usually for the attention, take to the line. How they dance and flip, flying along the line as if it were a trapeze. They dare not cross, for theirs is an act of balance. A game. To imagine the thrill of being one so courageous, so graceful–to touch the line without consequence or fear of falling over it–why, it’s almost too much for those on this side.
I’d like to write a book.
My house is not a home, but I don’t mind.
Because I own these roads, and have too much time.
The front seat of my car is a throne.
Behind this wheel there is hope.
I will fly wherever I go.
So know if I don’t answer my phone, I am pleasantly alone.
Last year I was a ghost, I thought I grew–but I’m still broke.
Everyday we come too close, to reaching the end of the rope.
Please know I love you so, but I’m getting in my car and never coming back.
I don’t know if I’m sick.
I’m sick of questioning. The nagging, I’m constantly scratching at invisible fleas. People are selfish. I am. I want things, I take things, I’m angry and I’m shit company when I don’t like the plan. Other people don’t plan things the way I do, this irks me. Looking at others it’s simple to me–seeing where they’ve gone wrong, what they choose to define themselves by, what could be improved. I wonder, what could I be doing better? What do they resent in my behavior? Why can’t anyone take a joke anymore? Why does everything have to become heavy and serious? Where did the fun go? With our innocence? Was it ever there, or did we just see what we wanted? I understand it.. but I don’t want it.
I built my world around these people and this rotten house. I don’t think I like it anymore. I want to take what I love and run from all of this. I always needed to feel needed. Now I need myself. I am trying not to be resentful, but I fear the longer I stay and the more that I think.. I don’t know. Things will get worse. Perhaps this pessimistic viewpoint is the reason things have been getting worse, who knows? I am tired, my smile is cracking and I am afraid.
Chin up, kid. There’s a party tomorrow, go practice your faces in the mirror.
The four of us drew a picture.
Sometimes I forget to count myself. Last night, no one was an extra. Nothing was the way I thought it was going to be.
All of us had fun. Each of us contributed.
I see every one of them on this graph paper. I can hear the music we shared. Our voices. Laughter and shenanigans.
The wooden chair sound effect.
We looked up and the sky had cleared for us. Time didn’t flee from us.
Nothing hurt. One thing broke.
I hope my friends slept well.