olives-ails

[olives-ails]

i have so much rage in me one day i think i will explode. i dont think i know how to forgive as much as i know how to forget

#rb #comic #anger #rage

[olives-ails]

I have this urge, a pull to protect

I want to sneak shield covered slips in the possessions of those I like

To save them

I don’t know from what

But I want to anyways

I want to press hands into my chest

Make them rip me open

And scoop out every little orb out

Little charms to keep them safe

From what I do not know

Only that I need to

[olives-ails]

I know it isn’t good

To be speckled with broken skin

Blood pinpricks

I know my mother would shake her head

She would maybe even cry

But what else is there to do?

When all I want to do is bash my brain open-

And rip my body apart

Is it not better to make little wounds?

Even if they’re gradually spreading

I know it isn’t good.

[olives-ails]

Laying in bed when a wave of emptiness washes over me

Static spurring inside my lungs and zapping away the ounce of energy I had

Rigid and unstable

If you shook me right now I’d dissolve

#my own vents #short stabs

[olives-ails]

It is a sickness

To stand stiffened,

In water cold enough to make your teeth chatter

No lights beside the one above staring down at you

Beating on your bloodied temple

Hearing words of a song you’ll only be able to mumble out

Tongue too limp to lift and make real words

Even so it stabs like nothing else

The swirling of stomach acid and emptiness

Eating away the inner lining that’s done nothing wrong

Shadows becoming watchers waiting for you to finally just collapse

Yet you don’t

You do something worse

You twist in that withering water to get the right angle

So as to let hands graze down on bones

Tear into flesh with a stilling tremor

Teeth will cut into a tongue

And nails will peel back skin

You will shed no tears

For you planned for this

Stood in that freezing rain

And fumbled words of a song that hurt

All to work up to a long awaited self sacrifice

It is not out of deserving or desire

It is done for it is what needs to be done to survive

To skin away yourself and feel that heat the water can’t give

The warmth of broken open skin

And healing wounds

Yet even as the faucet stops

You do not

Left dirtied and closer to death

Does it still count as survival if it stops someone from living?

Can’t question that now

#my own vents #writing #poetry #tw self harm #tw scratching #there is a bruise on my ribs and red painted where no light will see #yet all I can think is #I should’ve gone further

[olives-ails]

There’s a certain kind of “coldness” I’ve noticed that lives inside me. Between my skin and muscles. It crackles with disagreements.

Even in the sun I still feel it. Stinging under sharp sunshine. That glimpse of light and greater reminder of the cavern that receives none than a comfort.

If I had it my way…

I would lead us all to a place that’s warm enough to reach that cave. And finally show it kindness like the outer shell feels. To kiss and hug with no more worries. To care for one another.

#my own vents

[olives-ails]

I don’t hurt out of hate

It is a disgrace,

To harm the body she once held

Still I do

Nails against bone

Trying to burrow and find a safe spot

There’s none no matter how deep you dig

It feels bad to use a blade

Rather my own hands be stained,

By my own self sacrifice

#tw self harm #tw self destruction #coyote and the corpse #my own vents #writing

[olives-ails]

I hate the high beams

I hate the soaked socks

I hate the humidity

I hate the stupidity

I bite my tongue hoping it will burst like a bloody gusher

I wait for the bus to pull up and cut away my body like I’m nothing but smoke

But it doesn’t

And I have to walk forward

To open squeaky doors

And hot hot stares

#bus time blues #my own vents #short stabs

[olives-ails]

Sharon Olds, from "His Terror"

#rb #poem

[olives-ails]

I see thousandths of ghosts right here

Every time I grab a doorknob and see scenes of a terrible fate to befall me

Every time I sink into a car and see terrible terrible crashes before my eyes

Every time I step and watch as my whole body breaks down and burns away

It is in every action I do

A constant echo of dread in the way my fingers twitch and my heart thumps

Thumping harder and harder to remind me I am not the bloodied girls I’ve seen

Not the scavenged corpses of me

Behind my ever lip quiver and voice crack there is a picture seared into my mind I’ll never be able to explain

Shown to me despite me begging not to see

Pleading to please

Please

Please

Don’t make me see

I always see them

I always see me

See them

Rotted and ruined

But I have to keep breathing after

Can’t become the girl I’ve seen in each and every frightening flash

#anxiety #my own vents #writing #poetry #short stabs #tw death #death tw #I have no words for what these are called #but goddamn do they haunt me

[olives-ails]

How do I explain the smear I feel across my soul?

Stuck in one place doing the same things everyday but also running as fast as I can away from everything

Running and running and running

Trying so hard to get away

But my body stays anchored and my bones wear out

Even if I’ve been stood here the whole time

#what do I call this? this disconnect? this rising build up? #the constant drumming behind my brain #my own vents #writing #running

[olives-ails]

I love being alone <- girl who has known nothing but loneliness her entire life and so has no choice but to take comfort in it

#alone #loneliness #rb

[olives-ails]

How do I explain, that when time continues turning as it always has, I feel like I’ve broken through ice?

I feel like Ive fallen out of window and am falling from the tallest building possible?

I am feeling every single grain in the air and bug hit me as I know I’m not going to make it when I finally reach the floor

When I finally smash against the ground

My blood will write its own stories that will just be scrubbed away and destroyed

Only the ants I fell on will feel read the final words I left

And they don’t have a way to tell anyone else what I said

#my own vents #writing #short stabs #I don’t know what to call this #time #time passing #falling

[olives-ails]

She is the only person I’ve talked to that doesn’t give me any worms or make me cough. Doesn’t make me feel any ounce of sickness squirm inside. Just laugh. Smile.

Relish in the way she’ll tell me of a crush she’s anxious over or share her art assignments. How she wishes we were on the same team.

She glanced over the cuts on my knuckles and asked about them. Worried over them. But not unbearably. Stopped when I stopped. It meant more than anything else. I want to just know her. I want to just circle around her and be there beside her. To see how she is. Figure out how she is. She does so much. Balancing so much but still so smiley. Still so happy. Still so open. Honest. Kind.

She asks about why I am not in the same program as her. The one this damned school is known for. I draw and I love to draw. I love to make. But how do I say, I didn’t try for it because I didn’t think I would be here for it? Didn’t want to occupy a spot that I couldn’t fill? A space I wouldn’t save?

That’s the only time she’s made me cry. Made me sigh. Made me look away. But I would take that over everything else.

#people #friends #I hate that word #friends. it hurts to think or say #makes my chest hurt #but she called me it. a friend. barley known her but I am a friend to her #I would call her one back #even if it pains to say #school life #my own vents

[olives-ails]

Yesterday Dad tried to test me. Tell me to sacrifice something because he was sad. A simple hug or I love you. But I refused.

He continued talking. Laughing. I listened. And thought thoughts I never wanted to speak.

And then he stopped. He’d be quiet if I was going to be.

I said, with a broken throat and scowl. That I didn’t want to speak because all I had to say was mean. Mean mean mean.

He said he could take it.

So I said it. Even as my voice became unclear and clogged. Even as my nose stuck with snot. Even when my eyes clouded as I cried.

I said how I couldn’t believe that he would always be here because he wasn’t. And when he was he was just a threat to be good kids. A monster to make us behave. Or he was out drinking in the garage. Smoking in the truck. On calls constantly. Away in every manner.

I said how I felt so goddamn jealous every time my little sister got to run and hug him. And tell him of her love. And he would say them back. Because I couldn’t.

I didn’t get that.

And he cried back. He shook and could barely speak.

Cursed at the words.

But he said sorry. Sorry again and again. Sorry for how he hated what he was. Sorry for being like his own dad. Sorry for how something so simple as a hug filled me with envy.

And then another pump song came on and we talked just under it. Cleared tears. Got home and finally smiled. Even if I still haven’t spoken to mom. Even if I still feel just as sick.

A smile on both our faces.

#my own vents #dad #my dad #childhood

[olives-ails]

There is a kind of therapy of just crying. Crying and crying and crying. Pulling open scabs and picking at scars. Swallowing the acid and pushing back greasy hair.

[olives-ails]

{Aracelis Girmay, from "This Morning the Small Bird Brought a Message from the Other Side," Kingdom Animalia (BOA Editions, Ltd., 2011) / Sylvia Plath, from a letter to Ruth Tiffanny Beuscher written c. July 1962}

#web weaving #trauma #the past #rb #poetry