i was enough all along.

lately i've only got a lot of dusty drafts
and happy thoughts,
and i think i never needed you
to make me good.

why did they hurt her, she's kind.

she wrote me a letter

that made my chest-walls buckle--

so when i greeted her today,

i slid my lips beneath the bag

they'd bow-tied at her neck and

marked with "broken,"

i pressed my lips to the bone

and whispered

"they lied."

she called me pretty

and i didn't even doubt it;

she tells truths,

i know because she wrote her note in pen.

like lace more than anything.

the only day you've asked to see me in a month was the day you needed a ride.

which i don't mind giving you, but you have to admit it sounds sad that way, and sometimes i wonder why you got mad that i tried to leave, when you never tell me to come around, when every time you get back with him it looks like you've left me, and it makes me feel small.

well, i understand you probably don't mean anything bad by it and i know you're busy being a kid in like, but can you see why it stings?

this girl gets visibly uncomfortable when i talk about being gay, but she's home for only two weeks, has a dozen other good friends who wouldn't think to argue with her about racism or feminism or guns the way i do-- and she's been sure i've seen her twice already.

and i like you both, for your different reasons. she makes me feel wanted, even when she's not in town, and you make me feel alive, when you stop by.

but i'm still lonely sometimes and i've hurt myself again thinking about it; we're all full of holes.

spice cabinet monsters.

you smell like you wish you smelled like cigarettes,
you smell like my dirty brassy fingertips,
you smell like mold.

i'm not sure what you think you are,
but this is no forest;
darling, these are the suburbs
you've found yourself in.

and you stole the cinnamon and the nutmeg,
so i can't taste winter like hot coals anymore.

thank god it's nearly over.

(the worst feelings are creeping back.)

blahblahblah
the usual
passive aggressive
lonely grievances.

i just hate how you make me feel.

or i just need more friends.

i just need more medicine.

i just need more sleep.

sleep sleep sleep sleep sleep
until i forget their names.

if only i could stay asleep.

i'm gay though.

i really don't like muscular male builds.
everything about them makes me
uncomfortable.

trigger warning: everything.

They give you medicine and you hope that all the bad will just go away, that you'll be able to call your advisor, that you'll be able to eat like a regular person, that you'll be able to throw out razorblades, that you'll sleep through the night.

But things aren't magically better. You still have depression and it still paralyzes you sometimes. You still go to bed at five o clock on bad days, while your parents think you're doing schoolwork you never do. You still can't clean up the clothes at the end of the bed. You still skip dinner when you can get away with it. You still feel overwhelmed by an appointment or Starbucks or eye contact. 

Now with certain people, it's all okay. You've always felt fine with them; they're safe. They make you smile. And in defense of the doctors, before the medicine, you couldn't even leave your house to see these wonderful people. So things are better. 

I think it's still so sad and awful sometimes because nothing is really different. Your brain chemistry, sure, that's changed. But homophobia, misogyny, rape, war, ignorance, all of that still exists. And you're a daily contributor and enabler to so many of these things. You've got a lot of words but how can you DO anything when you can hardly drag yourself to class for half the week?

I'm just a little sad right now. I know it will feel better soon.Today I just feel windpipe-crushingly anxious and rib-crackingly alone.

So I look at pretty girls on Tumblr because for a long time that's the only place I could be gay. So I take a short nap. So I hang up a shirt. I type a sentence or two of that paper. I talk about depression with people, I don't let it become a shadow that looms and leers and tells me I'm shitty and alone. I hope maybe being open helps someone else and that makes me feel a little bit nice.

Things will get better, I know it.

But I'm sorry if I suck for a few days while I'm working on it.

And even though my mom wouldn't believe that sometimes I just wanted to stop existing, someone told me thankyou for not dying. And even though my mom gets nervous that I dress like a lesbian, someone is willing to look queer with me. And even though people don't always text back, sometimes they do. Even though yesterday was bad, today doesn't have to be. So it's alright, really, I know it'll be okay.

The medicine didn't make everything better. But it helped me notice that things aren't so bad. It helped me WANT to be better. It ate away the apathy and it lightened the sensation of drowning when I thought about the future.

I don't often believe in god or church or people, but I believe in beauty again.

Yeah, it'll be okay.