I Keep Crying

like I’m five again

I hear the distinct footsteps across hallway floors, voices ricocheting off thin walls, cabinets slammed with force, and the door of the fridge being thrown off its hinges.

“I thought we moved passed this”, a thought that runs across my mind often. But it seems like we haven’t, and I’m hiding in the depths of my closet with puffy eyes, arms with scars, and knees to my heart. like I’m five again.

Every scream and yell triggers a shake from my bones, clattering from the last meal I had last night. Teeth clenched in aptitude and tears falling down with every hitch. like I’m five again.

I double check if my door is locked & if I have enough blocking it by force. Because words are words and threats are threats, but actions to end my life are much quicker.

So quietly I hide back in the nook of my darkened closet, tears so quiet that only the ants can hear them. Hiding this part of my life like it’s another Tuesday morning, smile gracing my hallow cheeks, and telling myself everything will go back to normal. because it’s just like I’m five again.

I skipped so that you could have it

I skipped lunch because this week we couldn't afford groceries, so i put back the butter on the conveyer belt so it wouldn't scan towards the $10 i had in my pocket. I skipped breakfast and lunch so they wouldn't worry about how many bowls they had left for dinner, as my stomach ached in pain and I could feel it in my throat. my stomach turned itself around until I had to lay back down to be able to feel the ground again. head reeling, face flushed, and eyes rolling over until the dizziness made me feel numb. i skipped the thought of wanting to eat so no one would worry if the food was about to go to waste, and be wasted on me particularly. how many bowls until i'm actually done with the thought of having to think about the next bowl and how many bowls we could have altogether.

I remember

I remember how he looked, his hand on my bed and the other on my shoulder. His yellowed thick smile laced with the smell of beer and sweat.

I remember the words whispering out of his mouth, silent and slow— as the door remained locked. My anxiety creeping up above my shoulders and staying constant in my bones.

I was four, I was nine, I was ten, I was thirteen, I was twenty-one.

I was twenty-two,

I remember a cop ever so silently looking me up & down. My anxiety shaking my hands and reeling my stomach into itself.

I remember, everyday, I remember.

some days

some days i get so lonely, but i also get so tired from saying hello. so i stare at the wall. the nice, blank, non-talkative wall. and it stares back at me. shining the sun in its reflection, letting the moon take its color. and days pass by. and still, i sit there staring at the wall. waiting, watching, my life pass me by.

so there i remain. staring at a wall that won't hurt my feelings, won't say i'm not enough, and won't take me for granted.

every time

every time I think I’m doing a bit better, someone has to stay something ten times worse that makes me regress back into the depths of hell that took me so long to get out of.

or maybe I’m just blaming everyone except me. so like always, the guilt eats me up inside.

I wish you were nicer, I wish I was too. But it’s funny when I speak like you do, then I’m the b!tch instead of you.

Your eyebrows raise with questions that are rhetorical. But when I follow suit I’m suddenly the b!tch that gained an attitude.

I have an issue with facing things head on

I have an issue with facing things head on, with sitting down and telling myself… okay this is what you do. I used to be good at it. I used to be the one people would go to when they needed a whole spreadsheet on what to do, on what classes to take, on what goals to set up for themselves. But something about UCLA drained me, even if it was just two years. It sucked what soul I had left. It stole my youthful energy, my aspirations of who I wanted to be, of my hope, my dreams, and most definitely my spirit. I thrived there, yes I did, but at the cost of my sanity. Everyday I walked those halls I could feel the pressure crippling me down to my core. My feet crumbling beneath me and my sense of self slowly being overshadowed by the ideals of an institution overthrown with wh!te supremacy. Unfortunately, it led me to the darkest pits I could feel in my bones. I wanted to fade away and never exist. Maybe it was my fault, a young girl moving to the big city in hopes of finally being free. Maybe it was all my fault that I never paced myself. Maybe it truly was all my fault, after the world shut down for a couple years I finally saw hope to escape, hope that masqueraded underneath a veil of thief. I won’t be ungrateful for being able to experience what I have, meet some amazing brilliant minds, but also I won’t be ever truly so blind to say this place didn’t leave me with the most of scars. Or maybe, this place exposed the scars that I thought I had already healed from. “I wish I did this differently, I wish I did that differently.” No. I did my best everyday, actually. I did what I never thought possible, actually. I’ve been working so hard to be where I am right now since I was a young teenage girl, so why… So why do I still feel— like a failure? Will this feeling ever go away? I’m so close to the finish line, yet my energy to keep running is gone, and I hate myself for it.

I let it slide

I let it slide because I know you’re going through a lot. I let it slide because I assume you’re having a bad day. I let you say sorry without hesitation because I miss you on days when I get lonely. I let it slide because I’ve known you. You, who drops everything just to be by their side. I let it slide because it really wasn’t that serious. I let it slide and let myself cry in the shower sitting in the bathtub wishing I didn’t let it get to me. I let it slide and cried myself to sleep hoping tomorrow I’d get over it. And again and again I’ll let it slide, because I’m just the girl who’s expected to take it all in. time and time again.

I had assumed

My bad— I had assumed we were closer than I thought we were. nights holding hands as the cold air crisped our noses, tears running down my face, arms intertwined, and your jacket on my shoulders.

I’m sorry— I had assumed we were close. nights crying on the phone until the sun rose to remind us to go back to bed. nights on the bench crying until 3am because he dumped you for another athlete.

I fear— I’ve assumed we were close. days sitting on the grass unveiling our fears that we’ve never told anyone else. laughing until we told ourselves it’s not worth it to k-ll ourselves right now.

I didn’t know— we weren’t as close as you said we were. And I’m sorry, I didn’t catch myself sooner.

When will it be my turn?

when will it be my turn to get a call, a text from you saying you appreciate me?

I don’t know. But these days seem grim, and my solitude is my only solution, resulting only in sadness.

maybe I’m a monster on a hill, a teddy bear trapped in a dollhouse, a ring settling for a pinky. and everything I do isn’t enough for us

I hope— one day I won’t overthink this like I always do.

Depression makes me feel like a dull knife, you know you can still use it but it’s still dull even after it’s sharpened. Try as much as you can, use as much force as you need but the knife will always be, dull. Maybe you’re too lazy to sharpen it thoroughly, maybe you’re too attached to let it go. So it sits there. In your drawer beside the newly sharpened knives, unused, useless, and there in memoriam.