"You knew I was fragile, but you fucking dropped me anyway."
You left a mess (via psychedelicl0ser)
How the fuck do I hold myself together?
I make playlists of the same five songs so I have something to drown in besides my thoughts. I walk to a bar in my neighborhood and sit on the bench outside, tipsy and smoking a cigarette at 7 p.m. as I watch the employees set up for the night. Two hours later, I climb into bed and do not leave it for three days.
When a friend offers to come to the counselor with me, I tell her I have not yet figured out how to communicate the black water inside of me without frothy waves of it spilling out. When my ex-boyfriend texts me, ‘It took them finding me hanging a noose in the basement to snap me out of it,’ I stop looking both ways before I cross the street. I thirstily lap up crash statistics and walk into bars sober, looking for the drunkest boy to drive me home. When I go home, I punch my mistakes into my cheek and tell my co-workers I slipped on the ice when they ask why I can only open my jaw halfway.
When another friend mentions the purple bags beneath my eyes I say, ‘I’m fine. I’m just tired.’ When a teacher emails me asking why I haven’t been to class in two weeks I type, ‘None of the lecture material can teach me how to climb out of a black hole,’ then erase it and write: ‘Personal issues.’ When my boyfriend asks where I was the night before, I do not tell him about sitting in the middle of the street, waiting. I smile and say, ‘Oh, I was just downstairs doing homework.’ When my mom calls to check in on me, I burst into tears.
It is months before I take a crack at my own insides with a hammer. I smash this, I smash that. My lungs collapse, my ribs shatter. My heart goes up in flames. When I am through, I lie beaten up on the kitchen floor, but take satisfaction in explaining to the doctor, ‘It was self-defense. I needed to tear myself apart to pick myself up again.’"
I’m Fine, I’m Just Tired | Lora Mathis (via soggypoetry)
"Fuck you and your poetry.
Your sad attempts to be pretty.
The scabs on your knees that you never allow to heal.
Your complaints about being covered in scars.
Quit pulling the dead from their graves for your own healing.
Let your ghosts sleep.
This isn’t art. This isn’t beauty.
You don’t need to show the world your skeletons.
Take a nap instead. Go up in smoke.
Choose a nice boy and settle down.
Your bones are too tired for you to choose poetry.
Who told you to write until it doesn’t ache?
Why do you keep going until it does?
You write until you’re on the floor, bleeding words.
This isn’t poetry. This is tragedy.
So Says The Nagging Voice In My Head | Lora Mathis (via lora-mathis)
"I was thinking about
swallowing a bottle of pills.
But I didn’t want to die.
I wanted to wake up a new person,
in a new life."
Tonight | Lora Mathis (via lora-mathis)
"I didn’t get lost in you, I fucking drowned."