She was rose petals, and frilly skirts. Blonde hair and curls, always perfectly placed. She’d drink bubbly teas and ask strangers what their names were. I remember how bright the days were then, always seemed more vibrant than the past. Though these days never did quite seem to last.

She’d fade to this mellow gal, wearing overalls and had buttercups in her hair. Sometimes it was blue, others red, I think at one point it was even hot pink? She changed it so often I’ve lost track. Always smelt of fresh leaves and tea tree oil. I think she was forgetting to take care of herself. You could see the glossiness in her eyes, something wasn’t right but you couldn’t pinpoint just what. She’d hide it well through this ‘healthy’ thing she decided to take up. You know, green tea and yoga on fresh cut grass in the summer breeze. A charade that she truly believed.

Slowly, she’d forget. At first it was the occasional ‘I’ll do it tomorrow’, but tomorrow never quite came because each day would be the same. She switched her high waisted skirts and crop top tees for band shirts and ripped jeans. Her colourful hair was outgrown roots, tied up in messy buns. Not quite so bright, but nevertheless fun. But then.. came the drinking.

One night turned into two. And two turned into a week binge, having to be carried home by the club bouncer because she couldn’t do it on her own. She started asking strangers what their names were again, but this time for different reasons. She seemed to be missing something, herself maybe. That glossiness in her eyes was now a vacant grey and those grown out colours were switched to jet black hair, pierced her nose but swore she was okay. Tea was now whiskey at the bar where you could find the local punk bands play. Doing cocaine in bathrooms with boys she just met who she swears she was friends with. She was fun in a different kind of way. She was dangerous, a hollow shell trying to fill the void by any means possible.

The void slowly began to grow. She stopped going out to drink, but instead did it alone. Drank in dark rooms and wrote about how she used to be. It wasn’t too long ago but it’s hard to think that that was her. Instead now memories haunt her of her dark past and she realized that each part of her was trying to run away. And each time the memory of their hands on her, she would split into the next girl. Each time draining her to the point where she’d forget who she was before it began. And now she’s realized she’s ran all she can.

So she sits there, mind muddled between each of the girls she’s created and the nothingness that’s been slowly eating away at her mind. She doesn’t remember how she got here.

And I can’t believe that she’s me.


i’m trying

I’m trying to prove that I am more than an empty rib cage, but how do I do that when I can’t feel my own heartbeat. When I’ve managed to match the hollow hole in my chest with every fibre of my being. I am nothing. I am nothing more than a memory, one that’s been left crying on the floor for far too long. The rips in my jeans bend at the knee, torn and worn from every time I couldn’t manage to pick myself up. I am nothing more than the empty bottles left lying in front of the door. The door that is my mind, one I’ve used to shut everyone out. I need not be pitied for my own mess, it is no fault but my own for this nothingness. I’ve become this nothingness. Nothing more than a walking hole, with a hollow mind and a broken soul. Nothing to offer other than my bruised limbs and the need to become whole. 

it’s almost my birthday

this day is stained with the blood
I bled for you,
I taste the whiskey I downed to try to forget what you put me through.
I thought I was okay until
I saw a picture from that day
and the memories came through
like a broken floodgate.
i’m less than okay,
I don’t want to exist.
the thought of your hands on me
is something that persists,
and the temptation of self mutilation seems less like a risk

don’t give up, or don’t give in
I’m not sure this time.. which will win


trying to find a reason to live in empty bottles, that maybe after my fourth or fifth I’ll find hope at the bottom. I’m on my sixth but I don’t care to keep count anymore.

for I’ve found more hope in the bottom of empty wishing wells than I’ve managed to find in the deepest corners of my mind.

 Im tired of tearing my mind apart in hopes of removing the memories you’ve left in me, for they’ve become ingrained in every part of me.

my skin crawls like when you were next to me. Something no shower can remove, no matter how many I take. It always feels like there’s a layer I cannot remove, one that can be temporarily hidden under the blood I’ve bled.

instead I pour alcohol down my throat, not that I want to drink.. but in hopes I’ll feel it cleanse me from the inside out

just for one night .. 

scars and prescription bottles 

I sit in skin that doesn’t feel my own, it’s a detailed map of each hand they’ve laid upon me.

This is the scar from that 8th grade boy.

This is the mark from when I thought I was unstoppable, glass was my kryptonite.

See? This is the scar from that one time.

You know the time I tried to run in front of a car because I thought that if it hit me I wouldn’t have to go back to see her.

The scar isn’t actually from the car or from tripping over the curb, it’s from that glass she threw at me when she found out I tried to kill myself.

All I remember are the bruises she created and the feeling of his grips on my wrists, nothing more than a cage I can’t escape from.

Why didn’t they tell me that you can’t escape your problems if they’re within, but they did.

They did.
I just didn’t want to listen.

I don’t want to listen, but I can no longer ignore the scream of my own voice.

I no longer recognize the face in the mirror. Almost as if I don’t want to know me, why would I?

That would mean remembering the touch of strangers on my skin, and that feeling has become far too familiar. 

I wish I was as good at refilling my happiness as I am at refilling prescriptions bottles.

My body feels more like a pharmacy, not a home but more like hell. I don’t feel like me anyway, so it’s all worth a shot – 

at least I know it’ll numb me.
and that’s better than not being me. 

hot water for cold thoughts

Water droplets dripping off my hands,
Pooling on the the floor beneath
As I soak in this bath
that I’ve ran too warm

Hoping to singe the skin
I no longer feel fits me
Given no satisfaction as there’s
a barrier of numbness, like a cage wrapped around my limbs

Slowly, I can feel myself drifting off
into the nothingness I’m oh so used to
This protective shield that keeps
my gentle heart guarded

The problem with barriers is mine
has become impenetrable
I’ve become insensitive,
to my surroundings

The happiness I once felt is a dull sensation, if anything at all

Sinking lower,
I can feel the water rising
Oh how I wish I could lay beneath
the surface without a need for air

I long to feel the water fill my lungs,
I cannot take that last breath
Instead I float in the emptiness
that’s become my mind

The dull numbness has now become
a fierce flame
Though I do not move
As my eyelids close to allow the pain
to seep through every crevice

I accept it,
No, I welcome it

For I’d rather feel pain than
the hollow sensation that’s been growing within me

The water has pooled over the edge
As my mind follows
It’s become too much,
I can no longer contain it
I watch as it spills onto the tiles
Filling the cracks with my
overflowing emotions that
I’ve bottle up for who knows how long

Again, wishing for satisfaction
that never arrives
Left longing for some sort of emotion to creep up from the darkness
But left with the disappointing
reality of nothingness

I’ve become a shell,
desperately awaiting for my mind to come home

Messy minds and hands that don’t feel like mine

I sit in a dim lit room,
trying to put my thoughts
into sweet poetry.

I write with hands that no longer feel like my own.

And my minds a fucking mess,
but no one wants to hear that.
They want unrequited love,
they want emotional spoken messages.

It’s hard to write that when your thoughts make you want to blow your brains out.

I’ve thought about dying
everyday this week.
I can feel myself slowly slipping.

The numbness sweeping through my veins

like a warm embrace
as I take those pills
and down this drink.

Close my eyes and await the morning,
if it comes this time.

I know you’re there, please answer

It’s 10pm,
this time yesterday I was drunk.
This time I’m sitting on a park bench,
in the cold winter night.

Trying to get high enough to not feel this sorrow that’s been slowly eating at my mind.

I tried to call you but you were busy,
you asked if I was okay
and I told you I was.

I didn’t want to be any more of a bother than I already was.

Instead I sit here,
barely able to type.
Not just from the cold
but from bashing my hand
on a light post

hoping to deceive my mind into only feeling physical pain.

Now I feel both
and I want to sink down
into this bench-
let the night consume me.

I don’t want to be here right now,
not if that means being alone.

Please, pick up the phone

Late nights, drugs and inner demons

I’ve realized

the drugs have stopped working

Not completely as some nights
I’m swept away with nothingness,
no recollection of how
I ended up with a pill bottle in my bed

Except now I’m forced to face the demons that dwell in my head

As their voices get louder
when the sun goes down
Or maybe the nightfall
is when I welcome them in

Sadness is my illness yet also my cure
I cannot fathom why I keep opening that door

I know there’s a solution
yet I don’t ask for more
I’m content with their company
I welcome their words
As they write these stories
They help fill the blurs

The blurs of nothingness and emptiness

For I’d rather be sad than feel nothing at all

I’d rather them here than be lonely awaiting your call

In the depth of the night
when I can’t reach your warmth
I close my eyes and let them come forth

Bad company is better than no company to me

I know that sounds self destructive,
but can’t you see

I’m a self destructive machine

awaiting the end zone
You know this,
I know this – it’s never been gone
The loneliness and my demons
are always beside me

Something you’re not,
but it’s something you see

I’m content by myself, as I’m alone
but with them I am not lonely