I tip toe over broken glass with the same meticulous pace that I distance myself from a broken heart.

One and one don’t always align, and I fear the sound of shattering from a pair mismatched. Like magnets, only the opposite sides attract, but when pulled apart, a bit of myself leaves with you each time.

Under planetary bodies, rising sun and waning moon are no match for the tides that move me pensively in your direction. Were you any more poisonous, I surely still would long for just the slightest taste and suffer the lasting bitterness.

The home of your arms is lined with brambles so shallow they only pierce my skin. Alas, my buoyant heart rests at my surface to bask in the heat in your eyes – vulnerable for those thorns to pierce.

With closed eyes I meander around sharp debris, heart still aching, hoping that things will change. The scars haven’t faded, the pieces of me have not regenerated, and though in my latent pace I hope you return to me, I know that I’m shamefully malingering.

I May Be Toxic, But You’re Venomous.

I burn at the touch and I make it hard to breathe

I’ll make you so weak you’re unable to leave

Down on your knees, you scramble away

I don’t have the antidote to convince you to stay

I’ve also been feeling rather ill from your bite

It withers my veins as it eats me alive

What’s left of my blood pumps venom into my heart

Now a bruised piece of flesh that is falling apart

It was wonderful when you deeply breathed in my air

Sinking in your teeth with my fingers in your hair

But the aftermath isn’t pretty, I know

Yet not wretched enough to stir your rigid soul

I’m sure that you’ll quickly detoxify the fumes

Breathe in fresh air until your lungs resume

But your poison has turned me into stone

Cold to the touch, heartless and impenetrable.

Romance is…?

Bold and blurry dotted lines and fluttering butterfly hearts. My fingers reach for yours in the dark, though my other hand clings to sleep for the fear of waking from this dream.

Do you dream of me?

A dozen roses only live for half a dozen days. Love fades away, but will you stay? Long after the last withered petal has hit the ground and only thorns remain, will you stay?

I blush at your gaze and I blame the heat on a cold and rainy day. I hold you far away and toss the red string that never unravels; it just won’t break.

I’m afraid of you, I hate to say. I hate the way I feel so fragile when you seem so brave. Love has never seemed to play kindly with my heart, and if there are any more fragments of it left to break I would much rather toss them all away.

And still I ponder on what romance is. I covet it, a thing I’m not quite sure exists. A thing I’m not able to miss as I’ve not had it. And still I obsess over the chances of a nervous first kiss, of innocent lips with no lies and no lust. Of friendship, of trust.

Do you wonder too? Or has age made you bitter like me, and you’d rather only be with me for one night? I’d hate to wake in another stranger’s bed, full of dread with all of my dreams wilted and dead – Like a dozen roses, six days in.

Things with Wings


These trumpeting geese wake me every day. Their deep voices carry in the foggy morning rain.

I ponder upon how it is that many things with wings found light ligaments in place of their feet:

A bat is just a rat that finally took flight to escape the plight of the destitute streets.

A caterpillar would be a worm, but at some point it learned that beauty could be found underground, or buried deep in a cocoon.

With silk woven without a loom the worm still weaves the softest cloth. So why do we think the butterfly is so much more beautiful than the moth?

Its dusty wings are dull and tattered like our neglected things atop our mantles, or the wardrobes’ cobweb-laden wedding gown

Left with whimsical memories of the freed doves – and the dove is just a pigeon that we love for her soft, white down.

But does the pigeon know that we see her as a clown? Why is she the pauper while her sister wears the crown?

And lastly, the crying girl who leans over her balcony finally dives into the sky with her good-byes damp on her pillowcase.

She didn’t fly then, but found her wings in the pile of things discarded from her room shortly after her guest-less wake.

Her body slumbered, forgotten, slowly sinking to the bottom of the geese’s’ foggy lake

Where the vultures can’t find her and feed down to her bones; where all of the things with wings can never travel, she rests alone.

But in the sky she’s learned to fly with the bats at night and the geese at dawn, and through the day all of the things with wings preen her feathers and sing her songs.

The same things who couldn’t grow wings carry on. Undaunted still, though not yet angels, they simply meander along.


In my rage, I set fire to the field of daisies – it erupts in a haze, a harsh and dense cloud of smoke. The green withers into brown before it collapses into the ground.

I stare over the destruction, my heart pounding with regret. One bucket at a time, I pour water to douse the flames. The steam floats up and becomes a cloud, gathering thunder and raining down.

It sets ease to the fire, soothes my rampant desire for destruction….

Yet I still feel remorse at what I have done.

A chill spreads and numbs my bones, a frost crystallizing out of the cold. A single sprig of green is left – I hold it between my thumb and index finger. Still wet, but withered, it dies as slowly and painfully as all of the hope I have held in my chest for my trembling heart to lay to rest.

The morning’s sun melts away the icy layer, dribbling into a stream and filling up a void crater. The reflections on the surface match the light in my eyes – they flicker, they dwindle, they fall and they rise. A pool of saltless tears, it holds the echoes that nobody can hear across the vast and empty field. Prayers for mercy, prayers for touch. Her glassy surface never yields – no one comes to touch her.

And what will become of that desolate field? The plows come to mow away what is left of it, a valley filled with tiny, dainty skeletons shifted away in cold and heavy steel. Remnants of the grass remain stuck within the iron teeth – the giant sits abandoned with its duties no longer needed.

Days come, days go, and the grass sprouts again beneath the chained wheels. Tiny flower buds, creeping curiously where the sun called them. Maybe hopeful, though shy of all of the previous destruction. Will they trust the sun again? I do, when it shines just bright enough to turn the sky gold. I fantasize that life will break the casket that’s already begun to form a mold around my arms and legs, and will me to walk, to run again. As I rise from my proverbial grave, rust forms over the steel of the tractor.

And the weeds do the same, confident that strength will thrive again in the valley dense with their fallen men. Like the steel, I’ve grown so cold and impenetrable, my only shield my scarred skin that deflects all of those heavy blows. But the rust is eating tiny holes, making what was solid once again permeable.

Regardless of what I see myself as, I will be broken down, as nothing can’t be wilted – no tower won’t be tilted beneath a quake too powerful for its iron beams to hold steady against. The tractor is pronounced dead when its engine rumbles with dread, and it is towed forlornly out of the field, to no longer be an eyesore to those who pass without much care.

The roots release, they say farewell. They won’t miss that chapter of their cyclic hell. I say good-bye too, as I would say good-bye to you were you to uncover your ears and hear my voice take to the wind. I wish for you to touch me again, as I’ve touched all of these things and left them dead beneath my fingertips.

To the bottom of the ocean, the old scraps sink. The fish flee at the disturbed currents, peaking through the algae to see this sunken behemoth. It slumbers. Farewell. But is that the end?

Still, air summons itself from the tractor’s cracks and crevices and bubbles to the surface of the sea. Breathe. The foam licks the shore, and here I am to watch how unsure the current appears beneath a full moon. In this eerie light, so many shadows loom. In these strange bright beams, I see you – or your eyes, the way they glitter with so much emptiness. Your eyes, the way they hold my reflection, the true one without the bones and skin but the one that’s a casket with a screaming being within.

Where the water meets the shore, there is a dense and silky clay. Between my fingers I can mold it, but it quickly melts away. What can I do to make it stay? As God breathed life into sand from the sea, he didn’t seem to have much left for me, as I stare into the salt and brine and wonder what it feels like to die with my lungs filled with the scales of fish.

But then, you would call me selfish….

Yet, you didn’t seem to care much when I lived. The dead don’t hear you cry; they care for your regret as much as the charred field cared for mine. When the blade has struck flesh, one can no longer apologize, as the blood hears no remorse when it is drained onto the floor.

The clay is whisked away, pushed back deep into the sea, and somewhere it becomes an island – somewhere that island grows a tree. And when that tree spreads its seeds, a forest looms on that tiny piece of land where the sand and sea convene. The roots hold it all together to a tiny paradise, where I’ll set sail to one night and lie beneath the foliage.

The island births a field, one that is filled with daffodils that dance in a warm breeze. The summer creates a dry heat that makes it difficult to breathe. These plants and seedlings stifle me. I feel the fire in my heart once more. Fire. I crave it when I stand on the shore.

Cyclic are my impulses, eternity never resolving to forgive me for all of the damage that I have done. If only I could disappear as easily as a daisy within an ember. Then perhaps, become part of a lake, part of a rain cloud, part of an ocean and then an island. Desolate, alone, with no one to hurt me – save for myself, of course.

I flick my lighter. The peace has run its course. I want to fill the air with rage again, to feel, because to feel something is better than to feel nothing when none of it is real. Elemental and surreal, atomic and microscopic, unheard and disregarded are the tiny salt tears in a freshwater lake.

Just take me away and make me as malleable as clay. Shape me into something that can be loved. Give me feathers, birth me as a dove, and I will never again feel hate or rage or any dreadful plague. And if by chance I did, I would spread my wings and fly away to leave those awful things for dead. I’d rise like an angel with no tears left to shed, and turn my head from the earth below to forever forget regret.

Several Reasons why Nobody Loves You (A Prose)

Do you ever feel sad without really knowing why? Do you have moments where gravity seems to apply a massive amount of pressure to your body, making it nearly impossible for you to lift your head and get out of bed? Do you ever wish that you could disappear? Maybe with the word ‘disappear’ being a colloquialism for ‘die’, ‘drop dead’, ‘eat a bullet’ etc., but your loved ones would feel so hurt at such a commentary?

Other related symptoms may include a general lack of interest in things you sometimes loved, a heavy disconnect from friends and social settings, and a disturbing sensation of self-hate and worthlessness.

If you have one of more of these symptoms, you may be suffering from being a normal fucking human being

More often than ever, I feel a weight on my shoulders that simply makes me want to not be alone. But when I finally muster the strength to ask for someone to simply sit beside me, they are repulsed by the sick and trodden being that I’ve previously hid behind my smile and whimsical laugh. Yes, I hurt too, and though I prance about with this façade, I would still imagine that a person I’ve grown to know could be relied on to show every side of my diamond – even the ones that have clouds.

That, for me, is when the pain sets in. Constantly hiding hurt, fatigue and hopelessness beyond this smile, waiting for just one moment where I can let out the tears and have someone wipe them from my face. A silly fantasy, I guess, but when that dream is left unimagined, I am only capable of feeling worthless, unwanted and ugly.

Which brings us to the next question  – what type of pharmaceutical miracle can we append to this wound? If I told you I felt hopeless, would you prescribe medication, therapy, or both? Well, I for one have come to the point of realization that these are all band-aids with permanent side-effects. Your Xanax might kill you anyways, your Celexa could make you obese, Prosaac might cause you to swallow some lead – obviously, these are worst case scenarios, but if every medication made to treat your depression also warns that it may worsen your depression, let’s be frank; you’re playing Russian Roulette.

I cannot simply take my life, place it in the hands of a person who works hourly, and ask them to fix it. Are you telling your therapist the truth – the entire truth? For example, did you tell her about the things that may have happened ten or twenty years ago in your childhood that scarred you for life, but you internalize them because you feel as if they have absolutely nothing to do with the issues you experience today? Or did you decide to open up about them, but realize that the amount of time you had left those skeletons alone had actually allowed them to heal, and now she sits in front of you jotting down notes as if you’re a scientific specimen.

So those are two things we’ve tried – medicine and therapy. Either they worked or they didn’t. In my case, they were a miss and another miss. So what’s next? Support groups is what the usually say, or support circles. Essentially, people who you can go to when you feel upset. That sound easy enough, right? So you have a bad day at work, your manager is a total cunt, you haven’t slept more than four hours over the last three days – to say the least, you’re not feeling your best. So you shoot a message over to your best friend, lover, fill-in-the-blank and they say: “Oh. Have you taken your medication?” or “It could be worse.” or “My day was definitely worse.” By this time, you’ve forgotten why you reached out, you wish you hadn’t, and you’re exponentially more defeated than you were just a few minutes ago.

If you’re still with me and not reblogging this post to flame me for disputing medical practices, I’ll get to the point (or maybe just reasonably close). It goes something like this:






Now, I am most definitely not saying that all mental illnesses are fake and everyone should suck it up. That is the absolute opposite. However, what I am saying is that these ‘mental illnesses’ are not things you suffer because you are broken or because you are weak. If you tap your knee with a hammer, it flinches, we’ve all seen the doctor test for that. But there is no test for how much you’ll cry when you’re hurt, how long you’ll feel worthless after a breakup, how long you’ll feel depression after a death, or how long you’ll feel trauma after an assault. These items do not work the same as a physical assessment of your knee-jerk reaction, because your nature and your nurture and even the second and day that these reactions are tested can massively change the results.

So, doctor, tell me this? What is it normal to feel sad about? What is my allotted span of time before I ‘get over it’ or ‘move on’. Can’t I just cry, hate myself, and enjoy a little bit of time detoxing all that bitterness until I’m ready to move on?

I don’t know. I’m not a medical professional, and I don’t intend to answer these questions for you, for myself, or for anyone. All I can speak on is my own experiences with depression, anxiety, and just feeling broken.

Yes, it is normal to feel pain, as we do physically we may often mentally. Due to the vast differences of our nature and nurture, what is good for some of us is not good for another. I truly, more than anything, feel that when I stop touching the medication, stop talking to the therapist, and simply sit in my room and explain to myself what it is I’m feeling, why it is I’m feeling it, and what I can do to make it better, that information is more easily received by my mind than someone who is getting paid hourly to try to figure all of that out.

The assumption that something is wrong with you because you had a bad day, a bad month – hell, even a bad year – is not fair. Maybe, if nothing else have ever helped you, you do need medication. Maybe you could use a psychologist, one skilled in your specific problem at the time. But what you don’t need is to feel like you’re broken, weak or disgusting. We are not all placed on this earth with the same armor, and even those who have the strongest plates of steel may suffer a crippling blow on the battlefield. I can’t be the one to tell you what to do.

The purpose of this post was partially for me, in the breaking point I reached today where I cried all morning, called a friend and then was told I needed ‘help’. I’ve seeked help before, but today I was just sad, very, very sad. I hadn’t slept much, work was stressing me out, I was feeling rejected by someone I really just wanted to see again. For me, these were silly little grievances, but that brain of mine issued a work stop and decided to do nothing but focus on why nobody will ever love me. Thanks, brain.

Anyhow, that is a process that will last from a few hours to a few days. I know that I need to think about it, on it and around it, and eventually I’ll get back to where I was before. It’s part of life to stumble and fall.

But the realization of how ready and eager people are to prescribe medication for someone who may grieving is the second reason I decided to write this disorganized block of text. I briefly went over symptoms of antidepressants and like medications above – these are not peer reviewed sources, do not take them as gospel, but they are substances that I have used – to bring in the point of how readily these are prescribed. From my experience with SSRIs, they are not a ‘get well soon’ fix, they are meant to be permanent due to the change of structure in the way your brain handles serotonin, and if they happen to not be for you… that’s unfortunate. Some side effects do not go away.

And yet again, the risk of suicide for someone who may already be thinking about suicide. I won’t ask if it’s worth it, because it is not.

So what should you do about your Being a Human with Emotions Disorder (Yes, that’s what we’re calling it now.)? Besides this massive web knowledge infrastructure available at our fingertips, I very passively recommend a couple of other tiny things:

  1. Remember. When you feel upset, when you cry, ache and just wish you could disappear, you feel so alone and misunderstood, you long for just one person to sit by your side and comfort you – remember. That is ok. You are ok. You are human, you yearn for touch, you feel deeply, and that only makes you easier to love for someone who is capable of loving you. You do know what that means, right? Nobody is gentle enough to love someone as gentle as yourself, except for yourself. Give yourself what you long for. Talk to yourself  – I swear, it’s not weird. Remind yourself that it is TODAY that you feel this way. Let yourself feel that way TODAY. Tomorrow is something to be addressed when it comes, and not a second before.
  2. Reflect. Think about other times you’ve felt this way, and what similarities exist before the event. In my field, we like to call this trend analysis. It took me awhile, but I often realized that severe instances of depression came from feeling unwanted. It sounds ridiculous, but I care what you think of me as much as I care what a psychologist thinks. That information is for me to know, because I can then realize how to avoid those bad feelings. Do I? That’s a separate issue on its own. But I do know my Achilles Heel.
  3. Reinforce. This goes into the weak spots of armor we’ve discovered in step two. We know what gets us riled up and going, but what if it’s something that we can’t prevent? I get very uncomfortable when a person brings up sexual assault in a very casual conversation. Without stating obvious facts here, I don’t see it is something casual or remotely humorous to talk about. In current media stances, it is almost the only thing on the media, even with intensely detailed documentaries being broadcasted on news channels. A few days ago I was at the gym on a treadmill and the flat screen over on the wall was going over a documentary involving a doctor and an under aged girl. I couldn’t believe it! But at this point I had done what I needed to do: I remembered that I have trauma, I reflected on why this specific TV show was bothering me, and I focused on what was important. I do not recommend engaging, such as getting off the treadmill, going to the gym staff and telling them to change the channel. I only say this because you are not now acknowledging and understanding yourself, but you are forcing others to append to your weaknesses and therefor not allowing yourself to recover from this problem.

Again, for your benefit, I have no sort of medical licensing – I am only speaking of my experience, as I have first-hand grown sick and tired of being treated like a broken thing, when I am not in any element broken. I just have a couple of bumps and bruises that hurt when they are touched.

And now for the harsher part; you can sit comfortably in your bubble of constant distress, but as Franz Kafka made clear in Metamorphosiseveryone is forced to either acknowledge or ignore the monster you have become. If you do not plan or desire to be better – if you fetishize your misery to the point of making it a permanent tenant in your heart – the information above is no longer several ways that you may be able to help yourself. Do not, within your ability, ever make it be several reasons why nobody is capable of loving you.

You are capable of loving. Demonstrate it first yourself, and others will follow your lead.



Additional notes: If you fear for your own life, in that you may cause yourself imminent physical harm, please contact your nearest Adult Behavioral Health facility first and foremost. These places are not all made equal, but they focus on restoring you to a functional point that you are not set on safe harm, providing you with a safe space in the time being, and also providing counselling, group talk sessions and other educational resources. I do recommend committing to impatient therapy if you do not feel safe.

You can find more information about SSRIs at the links below: these are some of my favorite sources for getting to the nitty-gritty in the true risks vs profits of taking these types of medication.

Lastly and most importantly, remember the difference between a psychologist and a psychiatrist. A psychologist will find what could be wrong with you, but offer suggestions on how to better yourself in ways that do not always involve medication. A psychiatrist is only authorized to prescribe you medication. I highly recommend that if you truly feel you need to, visit a psychologist first and allow medication to be your final option.

How to be beautiful

Step one: wake up

Ignore your brushes and neglect your make up

Breathe slowly and taste the air

Gently run your fingers through your hair

Begin your day and take care

Do not pick up the heavy bags you lay at the foot of your bed

Leave yesterday’s heartache for dead

Clutch today in your calloused fingers

The next 24 hours are yours to mold

Skip freely over the worn out roads

Leisurely without heavy hands to hold

It’s up to you to be faded or to be bold

But remember your weary eyed smile is worth gold

It takes time and passion to finally feel whole

But while you try, you can be partly empty, yet still so beautiful