Clover hearted

Keys to abandoned houses

TW: substance addiction, depressing themes, psych wards, hallucinations, suicide, break ups

A depressing chapter, themes are self deprecating and self pitying.

Crazy

Crazy as in revolving door patients at the psych ward, losing count of how many times I've woken up in these beds.

Crazy as in a life built only to be burnt to ashes, people nearby waiting until I collapse in on myself again.

Crazy as in voices, voices with names, uplifting voices, terrifying voices, voices I find comforting, voices that ache.

Crazy as in talking to myself, dilated pupils or half open eyes, rocking myself, wondering if my voice and speech sounds different today.

Crazy as in an addict who is beyond senseless, chasing anything, shaking hands, runny noses, a series of relapses.

Last nights dream

I had a dream about you last night, you flew yourself to me, you called me Sunny, I've never dreamt of you like that.

I woke up and sat alone. Not because you were different than I believed you to be, not because you had done something wrong, but because I forced you out the door.

I was drunk, texting you senselessly and mindlessly, despite rereading those messages more times than I can count I cannot recall what they said.

I do remember telling you I'm not going to rehab, I'm not getting sober because I don't want to get better.

I vividly recall the feeling in my shoulders when I realized I had just broken the single rule you had for me.

I hadn't considered the meaning of my words until I had already said them.

It only makes sense to leave someone who admits to their own self defeat.

Sometimes I forget you are gone, I find myself referring to you as if we are still together, slowly learning that things are different than they were before.

Remorse lives loudly within me in a way I cannot put into words.

Oversized slumber

Something always aching in some form or fashion, hundreds of white blood cells with a story of themselves.

"This is going to kill me eventually." I think to myself as I stare at the ceiling, maybe that's what I'm looking for.

The idea of fifty more years of this rings like more bruises and bleeding cuts, I think I'd rather the easy way out.

This will kill me if I give it permission and I believe I already have, it's a cold kind of comfort, understanding that someday in the future, a day not far outside of me, the whole world will be quiet.

I'll stop being whatever I am, no more noise from inside or outside of myself, a silent slumber.

Thumb shaped aches

Every part of me knows this is senseless.

I sit in front of her and remark that despite all reason I'm not getting sober.

"I'm sorry, I wish I had something better to say. I'm sorry, I wish I had something better to give you."

I live with the strange knowledge that I am choosing to ache only to keep bruising myself.

I can live with myself until I have to sit with myself.

I sit with the self that knows better, I sit with the self that chooses things that lead to blue and purple knees, sit with the self that walks away from the sun.

Little moments in January

Every prayer feels like a hollow apology, I'm sorry god, please let me be okay.

Diary entries without a date, diary entries with titles for books sprawled around my name.

Talking loudly and energetically, happiness that feels three dimensional until the lights are off.

I'm tired of hearing myself lie about being sober so I stopped trying to hide it.

A dream about being numb and fearful, a dream about being scared to move.

Poetry books with half the stanzas highlighted, beautiful words and phrases underlined.

Late night conversations in which I can't see your face but I have a sense of being known.

House of a mind

I live more in my mind than the place I plant my shoes, as if the face I wear today is disconnected from the external world.

I stand in front of my house of a mind, the sage green paint and moss climbing the exterior, I walk past mold and broken windows.

The living room is deafeningly loud and painfully silent at the same time, frequent visitors who will later be pushed out the door.

Colorful paintings to cover the cracks, welcoming you until the very moment you know you need to leave.

Stuffed animals and homemade pillows, poetry hanging and carved into the walls.

Flowers, some dead, some not. The noise of the television is endless. Every shade I am is on display.

In the bathroom mirror, red lipstick writes "don't overdo it." The mirror is faded, sometimes shattered. Bags and bottles left with no intention of being hidden, everything used in order to do a line on a gold platter, I've fallen asleep on the cold tile many times.

A kitchen filled with hollow paintings, a fridge full of coffee, food, and mouthwash. The table is nearly empty and covered in bruises.

A bedroom with walls that change colors, never settled. A mattress on the floor, a desk that is a home in itself, even when it collapses inward. An endlessly changing story written on the walls.