i fade with
stilted shots, the audience
waits for me. choking. oh god
how could this happen
with my throat
twisted up
and my head bound tight
in ropes i'm not sure i want to
untie? snap my brittle
wrists. i'm losing again,
numbers scaling down to a
place i should not be.
a parasite is swallowing
my energy. tests are negative.
i breathe.
--
just as i drift
into
pale, fading sleep,
his fingernails
claw through
the
material of
my skull.
i don't know who he is but i remember
the wooden floor beneath me
the length of my hair
catching under my back
as i struggle
and
how it felt when he
left me on the floor,
limp
tear stre
sometimes
you just can't tell
the difference between
crumpled
paper skin
and the taste
of someone else
in your mouth.
ropes bound across
your chest,
don't choke -
they'll keep you trapped
until your wishes are
dry
and your longings
long dead.
you don't need to get any sicker, by jikivigoig, literature
Literature
you don't need to get any sicker,
( your kidneys still ache sometimes )
you need to stop damaging yourself -
snapping bones with blunt fists and bruised knuckles,
hear the yelps of a fallen,
another to escape your decomposing gaze,
why won't you wake up for a while:
( staring won't help much,
perhaps eyes aren't necessary )
whisper to your eyelashes
when the sun screams orange through the splintered
horizon don't you burn without me and when the
blackened wishes smear across your cheeks,
i'll hide you.
( the scars may fade but you won't forget )
if you were to bleed a
lay my skeleton to rest in a grave dug so long ago,
the sides are rough and caving in at parts,
i'll carve stories into the gravestone to give me better memories.
bitterness swirls in my sweat, please don't let me go,
i'm confused by such intense swinging:
from feet-punching-the-clouds high right down to
clutching hands and desperate tears and an urge to slice so overwhelming,
i shake with my inability.
pass me my flimsy little blades from your locked drawer,
i don't want to start reaching for the kitchen knives.
give me someplace to hide.
my buttons trip over themselves to leave the
fabric gaping like a wound i can't close.
put this together:
the door does not wake me
when the sky is bleeding night colours
and the stars are weeping their light,
the quiet collapse of the
mattress should disturb the
death in my limbs
but i am locked in a
box that will not open and through
its darkness i cannot make
out anything;
wrap me up in familiar trappings,
don't let this air escape my lungs -
i am too vulnerable with my eyes closed.
the stress kicks in the walls to my brain, rubble clouds
my eyes,
i'd like to remain here curled up in too many layers
shivering cold with skin burning away,
my knuckles white, fingers clenched around
the porcelain handle of my coffee cup:
words die in my throat,
my toes bleed purple.
i don't remember slicing clean across a naked forearm
but somehow i sit here, chest heaving,
blood smeared across skin
and there's a little blade in my hand.
let me sleep and maybe i'll recall all that's black
and far away in poisoned memory.
i've lost all that was once certain.
on waking up tangled in my skin by jikivigoig, literature
Literature
on waking up tangled in my skin
i am bound in coils of darkened sleep,
my past creeps up like a slinking hollow-eyed shadow:
let me run with trailing paper paths beneath my feet,
i don't like waking up half-naked,
skin exposed to a world that chews on my fingers and
chokes on my exhalations - these accusations lay bitter on my tongue -
i'd rather drown in a voice that's always there than
my own twisted suspicions.
i button up my secrets, nestle the stained collar near my neck,
and pin my eyes open with the unknowing:
i don't like waking with my shirt yanked up around my neck,
( please let me lock the door to keep the monsters out-
side. )
let me check your nails at
your hands are curved brackets around my shoulders, we're okay here
with your coffee scent tangled up in my cheekbones -
i recognise you
in the most unfamiliar way -
let me know if your pulse is scattered across your freckles like
blood on the walls
if you can't breathe long enough
to allow your thoughts to seep through metal barriers: your hands
are forgiveness, i am laddered skin beneath soft eyes,
you smooth my imperfections and sharp angles -
i breathe you in.
1. my eyes will not stop bleeding, slashed apart with images
too violent to describe: so far below, my ribs
are breaking apart and i breathe in too many slivers
of glass for my lungs to survive and
remain recognisable.
memory, leave me alone. present time, leave me alone.
project me so far in the future, i cannot discern
the blurry shape of that girl i will leave
behind.
2. the walls shake.
3. i can't decide if these are laughs or tears.
this is awfully familiar, i cannot remember.
i'm cradling too many hints in my wrinkled
hands, but then, i'm also
twisting flimsy razorblades with my
fingers: it's not li
(scratch-scratch-scratch)
there are fingernails somewhere, i'm sure, but all i have
on the ends of my fingers are knives:
if this is healing, i may just end up healthily skinless.
i fade with
stilted shots, the audience
waits for me. choking. oh god
how could this happen
with my throat
twisted up
and my head bound tight
in ropes i'm not sure i want to
untie? snap my brittle
wrists. i'm losing again,
numbers scaling down to a
place i should not be.
a parasite is swallowing
my energy. tests are negative.
i breathe.
--
just as i drift
into
pale, fading sleep,
his fingernails
claw through
the
material of
my skull.
i don't know who he is but i remember
the wooden floor beneath me
the length of my hair
catching under my back
as i struggle
and
how it felt when he
left me on the floor,
limp
tear stre
sometimes
you just can't tell
the difference between
crumpled
paper skin
and the taste
of someone else
in your mouth.
ropes bound across
your chest,
don't choke -
they'll keep you trapped
until your wishes are
dry
and your longings
long dead.
you don't need to get any sicker, by jikivigoig, literature
Literature
you don't need to get any sicker,
( your kidneys still ache sometimes )
you need to stop damaging yourself -
snapping bones with blunt fists and bruised knuckles,
hear the yelps of a fallen,
another to escape your decomposing gaze,
why won't you wake up for a while:
( staring won't help much,
perhaps eyes aren't necessary )
whisper to your eyelashes
when the sun screams orange through the splintered
horizon don't you burn without me and when the
blackened wishes smear across your cheeks,
i'll hide you.
( the scars may fade but you won't forget )
if you were to bleed a
lay my skeleton to rest in a grave dug so long ago,
the sides are rough and caving in at parts,
i'll carve stories into the gravestone to give me better memories.
bitterness swirls in my sweat, please don't let me go,
i'm confused by such intense swinging:
from feet-punching-the-clouds high right down to
clutching hands and desperate tears and an urge to slice so overwhelming,
i shake with my inability.
pass me my flimsy little blades from your locked drawer,
i don't want to start reaching for the kitchen knives.
give me someplace to hide.
my buttons trip over themselves to leave the
fabric gaping like a wound i can't close.
put this together:
the door does not wake me
when the sky is bleeding night colours
and the stars are weeping their light,
the quiet collapse of the
mattress should disturb the
death in my limbs
but i am locked in a
box that will not open and through
its darkness i cannot make
out anything;
wrap me up in familiar trappings,
don't let this air escape my lungs -
i am too vulnerable with my eyes closed.
the stress kicks in the walls to my brain, rubble clouds
my eyes,
i'd like to remain here curled up in too many layers
shivering cold with skin burning away,
my knuckles white, fingers clenched around
the porcelain handle of my coffee cup:
words die in my throat,
my toes bleed purple.
i don't remember slicing clean across a naked forearm
but somehow i sit here, chest heaving,
blood smeared across skin
and there's a little blade in my hand.
let me sleep and maybe i'll recall all that's black
and far away in poisoned memory.
i've lost all that was once certain.
on waking up tangled in my skin by jikivigoig, literature
Literature
on waking up tangled in my skin
i am bound in coils of darkened sleep,
my past creeps up like a slinking hollow-eyed shadow:
let me run with trailing paper paths beneath my feet,
i don't like waking up half-naked,
skin exposed to a world that chews on my fingers and
chokes on my exhalations - these accusations lay bitter on my tongue -
i'd rather drown in a voice that's always there than
my own twisted suspicions.
i button up my secrets, nestle the stained collar near my neck,
and pin my eyes open with the unknowing:
i don't like waking with my shirt yanked up around my neck,
( please let me lock the door to keep the monsters out-
side. )
let me check your nails at
your hands are curved brackets around my shoulders, we're okay here
with your coffee scent tangled up in my cheekbones -
i recognise you
in the most unfamiliar way -
let me know if your pulse is scattered across your freckles like
blood on the walls
if you can't breathe long enough
to allow your thoughts to seep through metal barriers: your hands
are forgiveness, i am laddered skin beneath soft eyes,
you smooth my imperfections and sharp angles -
i breathe you in.
1. my eyes will not stop bleeding, slashed apart with images
too violent to describe: so far below, my ribs
are breaking apart and i breathe in too many slivers
of glass for my lungs to survive and
remain recognisable.
memory, leave me alone. present time, leave me alone.
project me so far in the future, i cannot discern
the blurry shape of that girl i will leave
behind.
2. the walls shake.
3. i can't decide if these are laughs or tears.
this is awfully familiar, i cannot remember.
i'm cradling too many hints in my wrinkled
hands, but then, i'm also
twisting flimsy razorblades with my
fingers: it's not li
(scratch-scratch-scratch)
there are fingernails somewhere, i'm sure, but all i have
on the ends of my fingers are knives:
if this is healing, i may just end up healthily skinless.
the lights are low and
jocular,
wincing and spiralling
above your high school
prom
photo.
one that glistens
meekly,
grinning from its
perch.
you weren't his
first
love, you know.
my knees are tucked under
my chin,
and the bags underneath my
eyes are
magenta,
and the street lights outside
are whistling and
howling,
gasping and aching
for the words
you occasionally
say,
i love you.
your accent is protruding vines
that grasp
my wrists,
twisting and curving,
latching and sinking
their
white thorns into my
skin.
please hold me
i'm under the bed spread i bought
two years ago,
(you used to be so
confident.)
naked and
pretending that
she was my tabby cat by Unseen-reality, literature
Literature
she was my tabby cat
lurking recollections
of tossled moonbeams
were the patterns that radiated
from
her crescent skin.
she arched her back,
(like a yawning cat on a milky
sunday morning)
and felt the rhythmic
croon
of her
spine as it
sighed
(exhausted).
heroin has this alice in wonderland effect by Unseen-reality, literature
Literature
heroin has this alice in wonderland effect
she has her lip pierced with a little silver hoop that shivers lopsided, and she has smudged eyeliner around her jane doe eyes.
her backpack is the pattern of speckled cosmos, and inside is her first package of heroin (white and persisting its innocence), and she remembered the first time he told her that, she could be her own drug, she didn't need anybody but herself. she was immortal.
he had thick black eyelashes and his shoulders carried too much already, she didn't know that he himself spent his sleepless nights counting the glowing green stickers on his bedroom wall, one, two, three, four…
they thought they loved each other, a
she is eight years old again by Unseen-reality, literature
Literature
she is eight years old again
an unusual couple, they had a thin-rimmed apartment, one that had beige carpets with marble laced floors and a small buddha figurine that was seated on the balcony showered in the morning's monotone colors.
he was an abstract artist, always tense and adventurous, he came and went as he pleased, (he had a canny resemblance to the splotches of watercolor he squirted on his canvas) and was home at five with a homemade kiss on the cheek, lightly placed but never a notch too aggressive.
they heard the moon for the first time that night, grumbling and tossing and turning in its shady and fertile bed, pregnant with stagnant meteors and silver sunb
the snowdens of yesteryear by coup-de-coeur, literature
Literature
the snowdens of yesteryear
xii. insanity
have you ever taken
a walk in the midst of
a crowd and looked over
your shoulder
more than you did towards
your future?
paranoia is not a pretty
thing, and it's a shame
that the colour suits
so many people.
so i twitch and try
to stand up and close
my fists but that just
makes my palms bleed,
and i have no more space
for crescent scars
anyway.
if i shy away like a wild
horse, it's just because
no one has tamed my mind
yet, not even i
myself.
i don't know if any of you will read this anymore, but i guess it'd be nice just to put these things somewhere i will never lose them.
i broke up with james two days ago. it was sort of mutual, but he wanted a 'break,' but i am not going to be treated like that. like somebody he can put in the corner and come back to when it's convenient. i was sad, and it was the hardest thing i've ever had to do, but i am happy. a part of me was screaming out for help, and this was the only thing that could help me. it was the right decision. i do not deserve to be lied to and manipulated. i am loving and kind and forgiving, and yes i am full on, but i have
Writing mental illness (a short guide) by camelopardalisinblue, literature
Literature
Writing mental illness (a short guide)
When incorporating mental illness into a piece of literature, the most important tool you need to use is research. This is true whether you want the mental illness to play a large part OR a small one, and it is true whether you know someone with mental illness or not. In fact, it's even true if you have the illness yourself, because no two people are the same, and your character may display different facets to you due to contributing factors like experience and personality.
That said, research is not the first thing you should do, because before you get stuck into that research, you need to look at WHY you want to include mental illness in y
'I am missing bones' + can I get an editor? by insomniaplague, journal
'I am missing bones' + can I get an editor?
roadkill is a love story
to you
passing a glance between the spines
[you have touched far too many
to break them now]
for you have made me an adam
a hundred times
& all your scapels know my name
'you are not a dead bird
a skull & an animal'
[I know how you feel
a frightened tibia
hollow
& somehow making it to the surface
i was cut open
too]
'every bone has a meaning'
[your lips have taken every one
& my ribs have left my heart alone]
but
i am not on the back of any
of your pictures
[like it does any good]
because forgetting you
was forgetting someone I never even met--
--
I just wanted a new journal. So anot
i. stardust scatters with the
direction of my pupils –
maybe secretly i am an
astrology teacher, waiting
for a sign to wink
happily at me.
ii. excuse the rambling
nature of forgotten question
marks, but tell me:
would you like to be the
object of handwritten clichés
would you like to whisper
secrets in my palm
and would you
like to be the possibility
iii. air brushes against my
skin like the torn petals
of a flower still standing.
[ hold your head up high, honey,
and tell tomorrow to wait just
a while,
iv. so you can figure out
the difference between
patience and having all the
1. words have abandoned me.
i don't know how to write anymore.
i keep trying, and trying, and trying, and
all i've gone from is writing half-finished things
to not even being able to start a single sentence.
i think i'm too tired and too sad to write.
i find it hard to read too.
or do anything really.
and it makes me feel incredibly lazy, when really
i just feel like i physically can't do anything.
2. i graduate from half a tablet a day
to a full one tomorrow
since the awful side effects have worn off.
it's supposed to help me, right?
3. i'm losing weight again.
i'm sorry.
i can't help it.
i don't even realise i do it but every time i reac
i thought i should share this with you guys too.
(do not click if scars are triggering to you)
http://pretty-silvers.tumblr.com/post/52457355028/today-is-the-first-day-ive-been-out-in-public
don't try to conform to the angles
of my bones -
i'm growing this out, painful inch by
painful inch, mouthful by mouthful:
-
my skin melts from my skeleton and swirls on the bathtub's floor
-
you've been subject to too many burrowing details, scored
into your eyes and ears: if they don't have to eat,
why should you?
-
one day, i'll tell you the story of how you were the first
to see all my self harm scars,
brother.
-
father does not
recognise his daughter's
voice;
(you've only
known
her
for
sixteen
years, after
all)
father does not know
how to spell
her name.
-
[ it comes so close,
i dangle over the
edge
i haven't been on here in forever, but it seems neither have you. this makes me weirdly sad. i miss your words, and i really hope you're doing okay. i hope you're letting scars fade and learning to look people in the eye and smile like you mean it and picking up a pen at least once in awhile and i guess i just really hope things are getting better. you're amazing.
i know you haven't been here in a while, but i hope you know at least someone still thinks (and worries) about you.
i hope you have a beautiful birthday --try to be kind to yourself and, i promise, if you're scared of it, one slice of birthday cake will not end the world.
Thank you very much. I haven't been writing at all for a long time, so I guess I just don't come here often anymore. But I am in the process of recovering with a doctor to keep an eye on my weight, just so you know you don't need to worry. THank you again though. <3