Curate, connect, and discover
wanting to fade away forever is like waiting for the wall of paint to dry— staring at it until your eyes burn red with dryness, and your legs are cramping with every breath.
it's wanting to solve every problem with the solution of not being here anymore, waiting until you fall and your bones crash with the cement.
it's crying until your throat turns within itself and you can't breathe and you're forced to scream inside yourself. it's crying when you get a breeze of air in your hair, and your cheeks turn cold because they've been hallowed out by being so gaunt.
i've been wanting to fade away recently.
I wonder if you know which song is about you, which letter is written for you, which smile comes from you, which gift under the millions were from me.
Wait no— you don’t actually pay attention. Because last time I asked how you liked the gift I sent you, you forgot it was from me. So, I stopped asking.
So, I stopped texting, stopped calling. and there was silence without your laughter. Laughs that weren't meant for me.
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.
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.
my fingertips barely touch the surface of the mirror, in what reflects my most vivid of dreams. to be loved, touched like I’m a secret that’s meant to be told, and a reflection that’s seen but never meant to be shown.
i imagine what it feels to be admired, to match an energy so surreal my dreams can’t even begin to create a scene so magical. so what is it? will i ever be loved, respected, praised, or celebrated?
my fingertips have calluses from wrists bruised with scars deeper than stains. calluses so thick I can’t feel what I want to, and I don’t know how to react. to myself, to the world, and to anything at all.
so I shout, and I scream. and no one hears anything. maybe one day, I’ll be able to finally feel something.
I’ve forgotten myself recently, I lost who I wanted to be. Or maybe I’ve never known who I am.
I know my weaknesses. I’m quiet, tired, soft, gentle, fragile, and an observer of those opposite of that. I yearn to find the confidence that lies in being outspoken, energetic, proud, and stable.
Maybe one day, I’ll find myself.
I woke up today hoping it’d be much better, but the war in my head brought me back down. The rain poured down and my heart started to ache. I picked up a pen and wrote until I cried myself to sleep.
My eyes grow weary of the salt that burn them every night, of the thoughts that are branded into the depths of my brain, of how unworthy I am of just being.
I dreamt of drifting away until I could no longer feel my feet, until my thoughts were filled with raindrops that cleaned away the ash.
I had hoped again, today would be different. and maybe tomorrow my hopes will come true.