blynbleedswords-blog - Tumblr blog

[blynbleedswords-blog]

i don’t want to die

I don’t want to die. But sometimes it doesn’t feel like my choice. Intrusive thoughts scuttle around my brain like a clutter of spiders. And how do I forget the impulse that eats at me? And how do I ignore the phantom blade on my skin when nothing else seems to quiet me? I’ve forgotten how to cope. I don’t want to die. How many hospital visits will it take, For me to believe it? For it to be a truth ingrained in me, Like the love I have for everyone but myself. I may not want to die, But I would for you and you and you and you and you. I try not to think that maybe I should. Because I know that I shouldn’t. Because I know that I don’t want to die. I’m trying And fighting To stay alive. Because I want to live. Even though I can hardly breathe. Even though the thoughts think I shouldn’t. Even though living is hard And a bit too much sometimes. I love A lot. And loving, Means living.

[blynbleedswords-blog]

I know it’s bad when I can’t find words;

When not even “help” echoes through the empty.

I know it’s bad when I can’t lift a pen;

When writing feels like running underwater.

I know it’s bad when putting a poem together feels like tearing my skull apart;

When all the art I can make is broken skin.

[blynbleedswords-blog]

-bullets- 003

“I am large, I contain multitudes.” Walt Whitman. I do a lot of thinking at the intersection of Grandville and Cherry, In a room full of people, Standing at their own intersections,             Forget about the street signs. We all contain multitudes.

(blyn.)

[blynbleedswords-blog]

A public service announcement: My disorder does not have an off switch. My disorder is a living thing. My disorder is a puppeteer Sitting in my skull, Pulling strings, And fucking with my thoughts.

My disorder is a coward. She hides behind a mask of her own making. It slides across my face like prison bars, Closing me in, Pushing you out.

My disorder is a siren. She swims in waters of loathing, And comes to the surface to croon tunes in the key of deceit Their melodies so beautiful, I am drawn into her lies.

My disorder and I are alone. We stand in a storm, Waiting forever for the eye. Fog rolls between drops of rain and tears, And hides hands of help. To see is to believe, And we are blinded by  lightning strikes.

My disorder and I are an artist We take beauty from panic, Pull poetry out of pain, Weave tapestries of words to hang upon the walls of this broken home— This broken brain. We lavish in the things that are really killing me.

I’ve forgotten how to trust anything but my disorder. I’ve forgotten the notes to every happy song I have ever known. I’ve forgotten the difference between manic and ecstatic. I’ve forgotten what happy feels like.

I can’t hear, I can’t hear their kind words. I can’t feel, I can’t feel their outstretched hands. I can’t see, I can’t see their concern. I can’t believe, I can’t believe that they care. Even if they do. Even if they are. Even if they’re there. Even if they scream.

My disorder does not have an off switch. No. She is alive. And she is a bitch.

(blyn.)

[blynbleedswords-blog]

dog training

If you put a muzzle on sadness, It cannot bite you. But it can still follow you, And remind you, That you are never alone, That you are haunted. And if you ever loosen your grips, If you ever let your guard down, If the muzzle ever slips, You will get bit.

(blyn.)

[blynbleedswords-blog]

fuck you, i love you.

Fuck your perfection. Fuck your affection. Endearing and distant in the same instant.

(blyn.)

[blynbleedswords-blog]

after

After I fell– I mean the curtain fell, It was dark and lonely. The doors all locked, And the lights cooled. It was still, And sad, And haunted.

(blyn.)

[blynbleedswords-blog]

New

I’m thinking myself in circles. Again. There is a slowly growing mountain of Untitled Documents shoved in the corner of my Google Drive. A few abandoned paragraphs, an odd sentence, nearly random couplings occupy their blank universes. Line them up one by one and you have the paths of thought spirals. Take “path” with a spoonful of salt. Because a path to me is an impossible chalk drawn hopscotch left behind by tortured toddlers, being washed away in the rain. It makes about as much sense as that does.

I constantly flip from lead to lead, jot a few words, and leave them behind. Either because they’ve run dry, or because I’ve had to change the song. Things get more muddled. Words are eaten by a tyrannical backspace button. I turn up the volume. Confessions push from behind my fingertips, but fail to make more progress than a worm retreating after rain. I slam the screen against the keys. Push the headphones in deeper into my ears. Remember some childhood trauma. Turn the music up. Try to force it away. Hug my knees to my chest. It persists. Bop to a driving beat. Aggressively lip sing along. Fuck it.

New → Google Docs.

And here I am again. There are a million stories I want to tell. Maybe if I can find a way to write about them, I’ll finally be able to talk about them. In the meantime, I’ll keep trying–take a new Untitled Document as a new Step.

I’ll write until I can breathe again.

(blyn.)

[blynbleedswords-blog]

Danger Zone

I’ve built myself a home on the edge. I spend my days and nights with those who come to step over. I come forth to bring them back. I give everything I can so they have something to grasp, I am better at giving than I am at taking.

But when they leave it is my turn, Even as they stood I stood beside them, Looking over, Thinking over, Dangling over.

When I am alone– As I often am, it seems– I sit where we stood, And think of all I have given, But not accepted. Tally marks decorate the walls of my home, For each step I have not taken,

But when it rains, The soil erodes, And brings my home, Closer to the edge.

I tell myself: I built a home on the edge, To keep an eye on my friends who come here. But I know, If that were truly the case, I’d own a pair of binoculars.

(blyn.)

[blynbleedswords-blog]

I'll write until I can breathe again.

(blyn.)

[blynbleedswords-blog]

Doubt

I try to write about the things that torture me. I try to trap them on the page, tear them apart, and examine them from every angle. So that when they inevitably return, I am familiar with the monster beneath my bed.

But what happens when my my monster is family? When it grows up with me—like an imaginary friend. And like an imaginary friend, I am made to believe that it does not exist. It was an apparition, something I’ve conjured in my mind and is not real.

Surely you know nothing of it in truth. You claim a monster which has haunted others, not you. You are but a boy who cries wolf. A girl who cries abuse.

(blyn.)

[blynbleedswords-blog]

-bullets- 21

but i go on, with an icy fist grasped round my chest, because i haven’t given up, because i haven’t got the energy, to call it quits. so i just lie here.

(blyn.)

[blynbleedswords-blog]

I don’t know how to ask for help.

I don’t know if I can be helped.

Another unfinished poem.

[blynbleedswords-blog]

I Just Want

I want to be a dog chasing birds I want to be a baby playing in the sand I want to be a bird with the wind between my feathers

I want…

I just want to be happy

[blynbleedswords-blog]

Hope

Hope is a beast with fangs. Dipped and dripping in poison.

Hope has a button nose, And blue eyes.

Hope lives in Supreme Court rulings, Smiles from strangers, Parts in the clouds.

Lures you in,

Baits with love, Trust, Promises.

Hunts with chances, Changes, Introductions.

Kills with lies,  Knives, And truth.

Hope is a beast with fangs.

(blyn.)

[blynbleedswords-blog]

...

[blynbleedswords-blog]

Unmitigated by medication, I am lost in a familiar place,

A poem I probably won’t finish