irony is living life wishing for death


Maybe I asked for too much. Before, I was light steps and shallow breaths. Never push too hard, always readied to pull away. I thought I was ok without having friends because I was alone for so long. And then I started to sit with a group at lunch that fit with each other like gears in a machine. I thought I could splice my way in like scientists do with DNA, but the body rejected me. I thought I was ok with being alone, but when I got the chance to have friends, it was overwhelming how much I craved it. I wanted so badly to be friends with you. I thought you were my friends. Maybe not close, but I was working on it. Then when you didn’t invite me to your birthday, I thought that maybe I just wasn’t close enough- but I could work on it! But with a little prodding from someone, I was invited. I thought that I hadn’t forced my way in, that it was ok. I was a little too drunk. I was a little annoying. But I thought we still had fun. I apologized for my behavior. I thought, “next time, I’ll be better”. But there was no next time.

He said I looked like a man and no one said anything. I thought he was nice and cute, so I let it go. But I still thought about it. Do you know what it’s like to feel ugly everyday? This acne mars my face like mountains blemish valleys, like bruises spoil fruit. My sparse eyebrows disperse across my face like weeds in an Arizona desert and are covered with makeup like cheap turf. My hair is compulsively plucked from my head like angels’ wings. I can already see the new bald spots that will call for another shaved head, another failed attempt to grow it out. He said I looked like a man, and no one said anything. And I knew it was true.

I texted you and you never replied. But it seemed like everything was ok when we talked the day before. Then you removed from the group chat. I’m not part of the group, it’s ok, it’s ok. I wonder what he said about me after. I wonder what I did to make me so unbearable.

And the worst part is I still want to be friends, I want to be friends, I want friends. I can’t just forget, and move on, it’s not that simple. I thought I was your friend. The worst part is I’m not mad, I don’t blame you. I won’t sit with you at lunch anymore because I don’t want to annoy you. Maybe I asked for too much. I should have been content at the lunch table. But I wanted more. I asked for too much.

My friends don’t like me. They never did. All this time I thought I was making progress while they figured out a way to break the news that they didn’t want me there. I’m so sorry for being annoying and ugly and abrasive and loud. I was just so excited to be friends. I wish we could be friends.

I don’t want to be alone. I want it to end. How much pain do I have to endure before it’s ok to let go?

It Might Have Been: The Timing Is Off, That’s All

You keep asking “what if”, well

If the world had placed us

Without the worst things we did

It might have been


But I was lost when you were gone

And you were lost when I was found

Perhaps if it hadn’t been that way around

It might have been

I Saw The Edge

I have never told anyone this, but I saw the edge of life and death. It was bright and it hurt. I was on so many drugs I couldn’t tell you the name of if I wanted to. And then I was administering a needle to the crook of my arm. There was a man who’s name started with an E helping me. He was too skinny for his height and had dark bags underneath his eyes like drooping balloons. He grabbed my arm and said “if you don’t want to leave marks, do it under the fingernail”. At that point in time, I wouldn’t do it and I opted to just wear long sleeves for a while and do it on my arm instead. He helped me. It wasn’t my first rodeo, but I had never injected it before. It took mere seconds before the euphoria rushed over me. And I was so so happy. And then it was gone.

I was standing in a closed space. It wasn’t a room exactly, there were no limits, but there were no doors either. I didn’t see a bright light or anything, but I felt something warm in my body. In this place, I was completely sober, but I wasn’t craving. I was sad, but it was the kind of dull melancholy that you feel when you almost remember something that happened in a time before memory. It wasn’t a bad sort of sad. It was completely dark, but I felt like I could see all there was to see, but there wasn’t anything to see. It was a place between nothing and all, dark and light, virtuous and evil. It was the in between, the grey.

I looked down at myself. I wasn’t quite an apparition of myself, but I wasn’t solid either. I wasn’t a body. I was my soul. And I saw the light, this warmth that reminded me of something other than the grey. I followed it. It was the only way to go. I don’t remember being especially conscious that I was dead at this point, but rather I knew I had lost something. I didn’t dwell on it, but focused on where the light led me. It was inside of me, but it was also all around me. I knew where it was even though I couldn’t see it in front of me. I don’t know how long I followed the light for. It could have been seconds, hours, years. Time was not a concept in this place. There was no such thing as day and night, or week and years. Everything was stuck in an infinite moment, all while still moving forward. It felt so long and so short, an endless journey of one step. And when the light felt white hot on my eyes, I knew I had arrived. By this point, I knew I was gone from my previous life. I did not feel any remorse, but perhaps regret. I hoped somebody would tell me mom so that she wouldn’t wonder forever. I stepped forward.

But I didn’t go to a different dimension or reality, a concept often perceived as heaven. I don’t know what I believed, but I always expected to go to a place different than earth. But I was back. The bright light was annoying fluorescent lights in a hospital. I squinted my eyes. I heard people rushing around, but I could not hear what they were saying. I looked around, and I realised a woman was holding me and I instinctively knew it was my mother. I also knew that if I sucked on her breast, my memory would allude me, and I wanted so very badly to let go. But it wasn’t my mother. I had been given another chance at life, a chance to be reborn. I didn’t want to live life again, not remembering anyone I loved from my previous life. I cried loudly, wailing in hopes that my mother would hear me. I heard a collective sigh of relief in the room as I shrieked into the atmosphere. I had a chance to do it all over again, but my heart throbbed with grief at my old life. I knew this would not work. And so I closed my eyes, and I stepped back from the light. I felt something, another soul, brush against me as it took the vacant body I had briefly occupied. It lacked the consciousness I now had, but it’s heat consumed me. I felt myself falling backward and I closed my eyes.

I was in a shower. The water was pouring on me, but no one was around to tell me why I was here. I was completely clothed and soaking wet. I could hear people outside the bathroom, but no one entered. What I saw explains everything I’ve struggled with in this lifetime: not quite fitting into this skin, my sexuality crisis, my gender confusion, remembering things that didn’t actually happen. You forget what’s happened to you in previous lifetimes, but it’s still in there. The lines between the lives start to blur. In a previous life, I must’ve liked girls. Or perhaps I was a boy. Or perhaps I died in a car crash when I was seven and a little boy with green eyes sat beside me, smiling as we collided with another car before it all went black. And that’s why I feel or remember these things sometimes. To this day, I am unsure if I died or if it was all in my head. But I saw death, and it’s more life. I am not scared anymore, but this life is not over yet. I still have things to do and people to make amends to. I choose this life, even if it chose me at first.

Flying: I Dreamed Of My Father

What is calling from inside you?

It curls around your throat like the

Delicate fangs of a frightened beast

Is it the voice once heard in a fervent dream?

You flew against blue with

A company like cattle

Flocking to the winds

Is it them?

And you traveled to a yellow bellied valley

Of a man who shared your nose and eyes

A gentle touch marred by a woman

Who molded him from the earth she once held

And he urged on his livestock through

Stalks of golden thread

As you flew well above him and


Watched him behind flaxen roots

As he inspected me with the wariness of

An infant taking to a surrogate

And we fly out of our bodies

Howling across the sinking sky

Past the past

Past the future

Past all time

Revealing sharp tooth

Rough edges

Red shrieks

Raw hearts

To a place where we are untouched

By the callouses of others

And he is my father

And I, his daughter

Where we are not set on fire

By the passions of others

Soft and slow

As a sedated stream

Where we drift in a place of dreams

A meadow past those who heard our screams

Filled with ribbons of rain and crystal light

That blow through us like morphine bullets


He hasn’t been coming to see me lately

The man who drifts past my window sill

Made of the smell of damp sunshine and cinnamon whiskey


The ghost of his lips on my temple

Brings a slow burning in my throat

Ever growing in my chest


Abstract golden mass floats over my bed

Who sprinkles sane and

Sighs winds like lullabies


He stays in your mind like

Film sticks to the corner of one’s eyes

As they wake for a better dawn


They suppose I made him up inside my head

But he hides gifts as proof

Dreams of a place where i was supposed to be


But now i only dream of hot wanting

And letting go again

Where monsters become my only friends


The doctors call it insomnia but

I wait up for his return

I do not want to see it again


I will not rest until he returns, this man

Who smiles like the stars wrap around his neck

Like strands of barbed wire


Whose eyes shine like

The sun embracing the horizon before they’re ripped away

The last glimmer of the day


He must take to give, Mourning

From wrenching the pain away from

Children who never got to be a child


The point is, he will light a fire in your soul

And neither will worry about the hole it burns

Because a flame before was a flame at all


When is a monster not a monster?

When you love it

A harborer of dreams


How I Lost My Virginity

I didn’t have to be home for two hours, since my mom was working late. I was a newly deemed Sophomore, more mature than a Freshman in my mind, and I hoped it would be enough to seduce a senior. He had broken up with me almost a year before to date the better version of myself. They broke up recently, and I figured it was my chance. I adored him. I thought he was the best thing since Hugh Jackman, and that’s some high praise coming from me. And because I felt this way, I felt like the best way to show it to him was to give him something I would never give to anyone else- my v-card. And don’t get me wrong, I know virginity is a social construct used to limit women and shame them for expressing the same sexual interests as men. So, while I never expected to save sex until marriage or anything, I always imagined it would be with someone who loved me.

So with two hours to kill, I sent him a sexy picture (well, sexy in a pornographic minor way, I guess) and he sealed the deal. His house, after school. Super romantic. He knew I had never slept with anyone before, but somehow admitting my almost non-existent  inexperience with anyone other than him seemed like a buzzkill, so I lied. I told stories of sexual escapades that had “broadened my horizons”, when in reality I think I read them from the ‘confessions’ section of past publishings of Cosmo. I babbled the entire car ride. I was so nervous I felt like I was having heart palpitations. But I played it cool, as if I knew how this went down, or what the fuck missionary meant.

He didn’t want to seem like a total dick, so we snuggled for a few minutes before it. Got to save face, you know? He even offered to smoke me out or dab, but I was not about to get high when I was already freaking the fuck out. You know I was nervous, because I can honestly not remember another time before I got sober that I declined free drugs. He said I was the best cuddler he had ever met. But I knew for a fact he told that to the girl he left me for when they dated, too. I pretended to be flattered anyway. And then we were swapping spit. There wasn’t much leading up to the act itself. I was flipped over and my panties slid off. And then we did it. I don’t remember a lot from it, just that I cried and I bled and he refused to wear a condom. Apparently I was awkwardly curved (my spine curved out instead of in), which he relayed when he was laughing about it later with his most recent ex-girlfriend. He dropped me off at my house afterwards and said “well, thanks for the fun time” and drove off. The next day when I woke up, I was even more convinced that I was in love with him, or as close to love as I had ever felt. But he wanted nothing to do with me. It was a one time deal and he considered it a clean break.

But I have never had sex with someone I really cared about since that day. And I have not slept with someone without fear accompanying it. I do not know if this was a result of this event or one that happened when I was around seven. But now I feel sad after sex. I do not want to be touched. Every person I have ever met that lost their virginity at my age has said something along the lines of “I don’t regret it because I would not be where I was today without that experience”. I do not feel that way. I think it fucked me up worse that I would’ve been without it. In some ways, it was closure for our connection. But I was not ready, I was a child. And he was an adult. I wish he would’ve acted like one. It was consensual, but he was almost 19 and I was barely 15. I wish it could forget it happened, because now sex is associated with shame in my mind. I only do it when I want something. And just in case he ever sees this: you fucked me up. I never would’ve been here without you, but I wish I never had to be here. God will never give me what I can’t handle, and he didn’t. You did. 

A Beautiful Poem written by a fellow Trichster

glad someone could benefit from my writing 🙂

Day in the life of living with Trichotillomania

I am balding at 15, hidden by bangs and switched parts the strands are slipping into my dreams Becoming trees I can never seem to prune so that I won’t raise my hands to my head, now deceased leaves That float to the ground and I pretend they’re not from me

via Genesis: a poem written by a trichotillomaniac — electronic existentialist

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Morning Drift

Sunlight hovers on my skin, a delicate touch on a warmth filled day. Green leaves resist the breeze like the fluttering wings of a lullaby, soft and gentle. My sister is running across the flower field with my little brother, his long blonde hair blowing behind him, bangs blown up, no longer sticking to his forehead. He is wearing overalls with the bottoms rolled up and no shoes, the soles of his feet covered with a second skin of mud. He is smiling, his laughter blown away by the wind, and I can see the gap between his two front teeth. He stumbles and falls, but instead of getting back up, he embraces the earth and pulls my sister down with him. Their eyes are closed, as if imagining the earth were hugging them from below, the flowers around them kind caresses from a sweet smelling mother. And then, as quick as they were down, they were up- dancing, spinning in circles. My sister’s hair flew wildly and whipped around her face, the strands escaping into her mouth through her wide smile. My brother is suddenly flying, feet lifted up the ground as my sister spins him around, around, around. He feels like he is a bird, sunlight warming his feathers as his talons scrape the currents of air beneath him. There is only this one moment. This one instance. This split second. All he needs is this morning drift, this euphoric feeling that cannot be described as a period of time; it is endless. It is ever going. It is infinite. Nothing else is real in the moment of this moment. They collapse again into the flowers and after a minute that seems to stretch and change, they are asleep. I see their soft breaths rise and hands intertwined.

And then I wake up.

The Holy Trinity: Depression, Addiction, Shame

Shame on you for not seeing the shame in me; this creature that burrows itself in my throat so the words never come up right. Disjointed stammer, emotional congestion. Doc said I’m fine, but I’m not going to make it past 25. I remember it all in black and white, looking down from someone else’s point of view. It never felt real, not like the smooth stones of spectacular shame growing in my stomach. They know me intimately, partners with no secrets, rattling around in my head. Breathe in, breathe out; it is a sigh that encapsulates me like a second skin, a wet winter coat that weighs me down beneath the thin ice above me. Skeletons I buried in my closet like a dog call out to me. They shiver and clank in anticipation of being found- constantly dragging their fingers along my spine so I will always remember my sins, so that no matter how good I am doing, I will always envision a high bridge and hard water, a stiff rope and limp body, a romantic death in the face of a ruined world. It is two in the afternoon and I am laughing and her smile is bubbling and contagious, but I am still seeing blurred nights smeared across black skies. It is eight in the morning and I am eating a bowl of off brand cereal and reading a book by Mark Twain, and my thoughts still host the larva of a plan I have been dreaming about since third grade. It is two in the morning and I am watching recommended videos, but I always retrace my steps to the letters saved from a time where this body was not enough to keep my suffering from overflowing. No matter how I am, these weathered old bones will find me. My body has become a war zone turned graveyard that I tiptoe around, fearful of stepping on a landmine. I take a backseat to my previous sins as they drive me to all the places I never wanted to see again and then over the edge again. This body, this husk of a would-be-star hovering past dawn, has failed me. It works against me, pumping and pulsing and pounding as this ugly blush stains my cheeks like a flinch we won’t speak about. It took this long to know the difference between light and empty, blue from dark, ignorance from silence. These inhuman frameworks follow me like ghosts, a haunting. They are dream walkers and day talkers, seeping into the most private of thoughts. Someday, someone will knock on the door and find it leads to nowhere. I am searching for a place where I am child enough to live, but grown enough to survive.

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