Dear eyes - There are things I would like to tell you, but I don’t. We both know how horrible you are at keeping secrets.
Dear brain - You’re such a good listener, but you give terrible relationship advice.
Dear heart - I trust you. Don’t fuck this up.
Dear legs - Walking is easy. Now pick a destination.
Dear feet - Some days, you are all I have left to stand on.
Dear hands - I know you love poetry, but you can’t bring a metaphor to a fist fight.
Dear fists - When words fail, sometimes I let you handle my problems.
Dear voice - You have their attention, so say something worth remembering. I’m counting on you."
Today, I tried walking without my eyes. I stumbled into the realization that this body is not a very good bomb shelter. It’s more like a straw house, a pile of sticks making collect calls to the wind wondering when it will be picked up.
I’ve spent my entire life trying to be myself, and some days I’m not sure who that is. The last time I heard my voice, it didn’t even sound familiar.
Yesterday, I saw my reflection. It wouldn’t look me in the eye because he’s too ashamed of all the things he will never be.
Sometimes there is a “Help me” chained to the ankle of an “I’m doing alright”.
Every day, I try to fit this anorexic ego into the costume of a confident man but fake smiles irritate my skin and right now I have a rash the size of a confession.
I’m a zip lock bag full of apologies I haven’t found the courage to give to the people who deserve them.
When I’m depressed, I’m willing to chase anything that has no ambition of staying. Women and parking spaces begin to look identical. I treat intimacy like a fire escape forgetting that eventually we both have to go home.
When you are lonely for this long, you stop calling it lonely.
You call it Tuesday."
I’m not a huge fan of small talk. I’m bad at introductions and my tongue trips over its own feet more often than I can keep count of. I’d rather not speak because I’m bad at it. My voice quivers, I speak too fast and too quietly. The only thing I can do is write because my fingers know how to fly while my tongue is still glued to the ground.
My first psychiatrist sits me down after my second overdose and tells me, “You have a beautiful mind.” I want to tell him that it doesn’t feel beautiful from the inside. The roof is caving in, the doors are splintered, the paint job was never finished to begin with. There are cracks in the foundation and my mind was built on a fault line. Maybe, this is why I cannot stop shaking in public.
I eat every two hours. My stomach is located near my heart and between the two I’m not sure which one’s emptier. I’m not sure which one’s bigger either. They seem to both be the size of my fist but they can stretch beyond human limits. I seem to waste my time on people who don’t deserve it.
I crave physical intimacy more than love because I don’t think I have the patience for the latter. I seem to have commitment issues and sometimes I even have trouble committing to the idea of braces. The only thing I can seem to commit to my cat. I can’t stand the idea of getting close to someone and sometimes I even run away from my own family.
I’ve burnt down my body so close to the ground. I’ve spent a year trying to build something out of my own ashes. People think I’m worth loving but I’m still having trouble convincing myself that I deserve to be loved.
I think I am scared of being happy because I’m not sure how long it’s going to last. I’m learning to remember the good moments instead of focusing on the bad.
Maybe I burnt myself down just so I could get a fresh start."