WHO AM I ANYMORE

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.

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she spoke with my voice

She touched me, although I’m not sure if she is a she. Her voice was my own, which is why I make this possibly false claim. Although there’s no face, and she has no name.

 A quiet whisper is now a subtle voice, I felt her hands on my skin tonight. Telling me it would be okay, that I didn’t need anyone else that with me she’d stay. I’ve been so alone, that it was nice to feel warmth of her touch. 

I’m not sure if that’s crazy, although I don’t care too much. Her skin was dark, not like skin but soot. I could nearly differentiate the shadows from where lay her foot. 

This is not the first time, though this time I don’t want her to go. There’s this feeling of buzzing, this noise of which I cannot stray. She made it all go silent, within that moment I was okay.

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.