Tag Archives: depression

Baby Overdose;

One too many opened blister packets.

Chalky blue tablets swallowed down; bitter, choking, dry,

Words bleed out of my brain and morph into seven-headed visions, and

My heavy tongue feels like grating metal and frigid sandpaper as

I carefully utter the slurred words that would reach no one—

I hope you’re fucking better now.

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Cížek

i.)

there’s chemicals

on your lips, a toxic

shade of purple—

blood and oxytocin

acrid aftertastes

burning a hole in

my tongue, but i

still thusly refuse to

d-i-s-c-o-n-n-e-c-t

ii.)

claws unsheathed

fingernails dragged

down shivering flesh;

you starve me far too

much dear, and yet i

still crave for so little…

iii.)

you’re the enticing mystery

i desperately deign to solve

and when i finally do, i’ll keep

all the answers for myself

iv.)

¡ scream louder now

rupture my lungs

and send my head

reeling, from migraines

and ringing ears and

the bitterest irony of

my fucking addictions

(sing louder now) !

v.)

you are pure perfection

with dimpled mistakes

myriad colours festering,

of butterflies and cosmos,

limerence and transience,

infatuation and repression…

you’re so goddamn beautiful.

vi.)

[if only i knew

that i’ll never be

your pale luna,]

[only a forgotten

freckle in no one’s

lavender skyline]

vii.)

dear lost lover,

if only i knew

b e t t e r.

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29 – january candy canes

go ahead and raise up that scarlet umbrella

to fight against acerbic deception and winds

and sing me as song as fragile as the moon

.

of idyllic interludes of a thumping piano

decadent as the afterthought of samsara

but not quite as disenchanting as a eulogy

.

and frailer flavours of icy mint and failure

mingling with petrichor and soft lemongrass

so provoke my lullabies, while you still can

.

for soon, i’ll lose the ability to fall asleep

and when the weather turns cold like this

the rain shall only be another dying wish.

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28 – hesitant hope

i know you aren’t sick

of that five-hour coffee yet

or even making a mess out of

expensive watercolours

but you better stop laughing

while you’re down and out

.

and you also don’t care

for the farewells and five a.m.

headaches making a mess

out of your cheapest apologies

but you better start fixing

that wretched old life of yours.

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27 – musings on gil puyat station

oh, she’s like this cardboard city, with the subtle way she’s barely holding herself together.

she’s an anachronism, of late-night guilt and freshly-brewed coffee; no sugar, no cream, barely sipped. she intertwines her deepest confessions inside my vulnerable chest cavity and suddenly constricts without warning, completely sucking me dry of resentful consciences and clever second thoughts.

though i talk with corroded shackles beneath my tongue, i care not for the sharp tang of rust. while she solemnly weeps for fictional infinities on the other side of the country, i impatiently await that impending reply as i absently gaze outside the window of a clattering train, basking at this city, built upon centuries of dusty grey smog and busy promises—of fragile bodies barely touching, barely stopping to breathe, barely existing.

she has an irrational need, that insensible girl, to save what can no longer be saved, to control what is far beyond her means, to create as it destroys her. the pleading words on the dull glow of my screen are a tangible whisper, tasting of colliding tears and bitter shame. “i want to help you, like they always did for me, but—i fear…i fear i cannot.”

can you not, indeed? my ulterior rejection is swift and bordering on impolite; but i still listen, and descry for mutual understanding. for though i shall never admit it out loud, your blithe persistence undoubtedly plagues me; to the very throes of my lavender dreams—resting beneath the stars as i turn my back upon that flimsy conversation and that paper metropolis, and allow myself to think clearly again.

to her, i am the eternal glue that holds her together. to me, i am the stranger who mercilessly ripped her apart in an attempt to reconstruct her to my own selfish beliefs.

who is right? what is the relative concept; of wrongness, of forgiveness, of sudden change and reconciliation, of the flismy trust that you broke, and the tested faith that broke you?

and who am i to tell?

the verdant landscape of laguna finally greets my wandering eyes and thankfully pulls me away from the echoing cries of that city, that poster past of a coalescing city that fills up my thoughts with a charcoal haze and renders everything else an unfamiliar slate of grey. my sighs are comforting once again, and she no longer appears to be just another one of the million impostors i came across today.

she means well. she meant well.

though—call it nihilism if you may—at the very least, she should be tolerable to her qualms and fear not the fortunate reality of losing me; arms unfolding, heart reaching, mind forgetting.

and fade away, i will. a plastic boy like me has no place in a cardboard world like this.

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25 – revelations

my schizophrenic shadow wistfully overlooks the edge of the world, and i despair; and i despair.

my vulnerable screams are plangent and writhing, yet no hands clamber for salvation, only mine; only mine. the blood from my scars clot and turn into vicious rubies, scratching under my skin, entangled arteries blocked with the sound of desperate confessions and faithless escape. soporific gazes puncture my eyes like clever sin, injecting doses of pity and false concern, and my diseases lie; and they lie.

against commas and halos, only the propane in my dry mouth tastes of sleep. though the sourest hints of fire is nothing but another bad affinity, another chaotic weather, another apologetic insomnia last night; was it last night? i find myself distraught with overwhelming furore, pervaded senses intruding the compromised chambers of my chest and colliding against my ribs, my painfully-starved ribs. my taut insides churn and hunger against me angrily. i deserve nothing less.

my bruised fingers are mere cowards for not pushing the rusted knife in deeper now, and deeper still. my tender flesh is weak for buckling and shivering against my final prayer for remedy, one last suffering goodbye, an unwritten note belied in self-sabotage. my crass willpower is a fledgling deceiver, for somehow fully convincing my desensitised mind that it can leave no warmth, no life, no breath inside my poorly-shattered spine, by the time she finally arrives too late to wonder why the hell i did such unspeakable actions; oh, she must wonder why.

failure, again; and again. i can do no harm—god, why can’t i?

as cascading chains of sunlight eventually incarcerate my catatonic body in an overwhelming apoplexy of pain, i simply sit in the suffocating confines of that final concluding silence, and morning awaits. mourning awaits.

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23 – a lukewarm 4 a.m. shower (isn’t as bad as it sounds)

i hope i can wash it all out.

.

all the exhaustion and instability

the throat i screamed ragged

and my eyes drowning in red water

.

the hellish nightmares creeping into

the darkness when i forgot to turn on the light

.

when i was too tired to stand up

and make a better mess of myself

because no one else could do that for me

.

not the phone calls i’m avoiding

not the close friends i barely know anymore

not the faceless comfort typing on their

tiny glowing screens always telling me

.

i’ll be fucking alright, because i won’t

.

be there for them. instead, i’ll be sitting

in the middle of a cold-tiled floor, still trying

to wake myself up enough to breathe.

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22 – covet me, still.

i’m careening out of the control

i never had—i never had it in the first place

because all i’ve been doing is avoiding

and lying from ear to ear as i make

my smiles easier to disappear from again

it was a lot easier to think i had one.

but the meaninglessness of it rests like

a shuddering sigh at the back of my mouth,

almost choking me to death as it tries

to hold all of my fucking screams within...

i’m locked up in my room, throwing up all

the contrition and uneaten apologies

for the people that i nearly killed—

and for the people who nearly killed me.

i don’t know how long i could keep up this act

and i’m so close to losing more than a friend,

more than dial tones, more than myself…

i wish i wasn’t so goddamn selfish.

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20.5 – arrow (pt. 1)

i.) target

the guilt absolves itself at the edge of my paranoia,

screaming and clawing up my throat, madly pleading

“you’ve killed him! oh god, what have you done?!”

crashing towards a trainwreck of panic, and yet

there’s only one casualty to be found, fitfully tossing

and churning on their bed of needles, as they dreamt

about a nightmare where they weren’t a murderer—

when i didn’t make myself out to be nothing but a murderer.

your messages bore no resemblance to you; babbling

and illegible, desperately trying to lodge itself in the nooks

of my broken ribs, searching for the bullseye in a heart

that was never there. i swear, i only wanted a little bit

of control, but i got more than I bargained for—

and now for all i know you might be done for, all because

i thought i could manipulate the way that you think…

so now, i’ll pray to a god that i haven’t believed in for years,

and hope against hope that my apologies will be

enough to keep you alive. i’m sorry. i’m sorry. what have i done?

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17 – urge

today, he woke up after four hours of a very restless sleep, his cold bones craving madly with the overpowering desire to simply cease existing.

it wasn’t his usual run-of-the-mill panic attack or anything he could handle. it felt…different, somehow. more threatening. more accessible. more tangible.

it felt strange as hell to him, and considering that his main thoughts consisted of daily morbid jokes about demise, that was already saying a lot. all he wanted to do then was to go back to sleep, but every time he shut his eyes, he could vividly envision his own warm blood liberally pouring out of his arms and spilling all over his bedsheets, dripping from the edges of his stained white pillows, and finally pooling all over the floor, where it patiently awaited for someone else to stumble and get hurt on it.

it felt real. it was almost too real. he wanted it to be real. this time, this time, this time

he was so tired and confused; still muddled by the coalescing haze of heavy medication and sleep deprivation. he didn’t know what to do anymore. he wanted to physically call out for help, to chat up a casual friend and tell them about everything that’s running on his mind, or perhaps to dial his estranged parent’s number and finally confess that he couldn’t take it anymore; anything but keeping it to himself again. this was dangerous. he’s in danger. he should save himself.

but he didn’t do any of those. he couldn’t. after all this time, he still could fucking not.

so instead, he gave way to asinine distractions and a different kind of pain to bide him by, hoping that what he was doing is going to be enough; waiting, waiting, waiting.

it’s been eight hours since he first woke up. he’s still all alone and staring dully at the darkened walls of his bedroom, and the immense hunger is carving his protesting flesh into a sculpted gauntness, but he doesn’t dare move. he barely even dares to breathe.

now, he’s calmed down considerably—but not in the way he should have been. he’s too calm. he shouldn’t be this calm.

and it scares him.

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