#trigger warning: suicidal thoughts

[lovefrombegonia]

This was inspired by this post. This is me overcoming my Bruce Wayne bias and trying to see a different pov. But my post is still gonna be Bruce-centric, so, did I really overcame? Idc. This is gonna be BRUCE-CENTRIC, just in case people don't want to read that. Also, it's gonna have disturbing themes.

Trigger warning: Suicide attempt, Suicidal feelings, Suicidal thoughts

I have a love-hate relationship with that post. I LOVE Bruce so much. He is my comfort father figure LOL

But also...this is a very compelling angle. And the angst lover in me wants to see how Bruce reacts to it too.

Maybe when he comes back, he sees how his family and Gotham as a whole is doing so much better. It breaks him. Just like it breaks us all when we find out how we are not really as much of a good person or good family member as we thought we were. I know that feeling. The guilt, the despair...it kills me. I can't imagine how much it kills Bruce after he realises how much he has neglected his family and how he is their ruin. How his family is so much happier without him.

At first he was angry. He felt betrayed. He felt wronged. How can his family abandon him like that. But his conscience stopped him. Coz slowly he realized, they did love him. They loved him so much. But he was not a good father or a good mentor. Or even a good person. He too had abandoned his kids so many times. Over his rules and his mission, had he not?? He was supposed to love them and be there for them. All he did was make things worse...

He wanted to go back and make it better. Apologize to them. Beg them to give him a chance. But then he realized, he will just make it worse. No matter what, he can't change WHAT he is. If he goes back, he might still keep Gotham first. He might not be able to help himself. Lord knows, his own past actions are proof enough. His mere presence might also push Tim further into guilt too maybe. (he finds out Tim knew Bruce is alive but chose not to do that and put his family first. Idk how B finds out. Make something up. As you can see, I am not much of a writer 😔.) So, Bruce also, for the first time in his life probably, decided to put his kids first.

He walks away from Gotham. He walks away from Batman. The world is a better place without him. And Bruce is OK with it, surprisingly. Maybe he was tired of himself too. No. He has always been tired of himself. But until this point, he was too egoistic to accept that.

He also knows himself. Knows he can't stay from Gotham for long. So, he needs to find a permanent solution. He goes back in time, to an unimportant timeline with Dr. Fate's help. He is tired of his own failures and wrong doings. This is the only place of comfort he knows, strangely, the only place he is sure of will never leave him alone. The only sense of permanence in his life. He walks into the crime alley. He won't come back again.

[fatecanberewritten]

He had lived until that moment by that blind faith that breeds a grim integrity. This faith was deserting him, this integrity was failing him. Everything he had believed was disintegrating. Truths he did not want to recognize obsessed him unrelentingly. He must from now on be a different man. He suffered the strange pangs of a conscience that has suddenly undergone a cataract operation. He saw what he shrank from seeing. He felt drained, useless, out of joint with his past life, dismissed, dissolved. Authority was dead within him. He no longer had any reason for being.

Victor Hugo, Les Misérables (transl. C. Donougher)

[hardtchill]

why are you having a bad week carrot?

It's just been really tough. A colleague of mine committed suicide, a good friend was diagnosed with cancer and it's mothersday this weekend.

[blueskittlesart]

Now that you're gone

[waining-crescent-moon]

if keefe died gisela’s plan would fully fail and i need him to know that for personal reasons

[observinghenrywinter]

This is what makes us girls ig😪

[disjointed-art]

Catch my breath Part 2: sprout page 7

Tw: Steve low key talking about unaliving…it is not explicit suicidal ideation but Please skip this page if you’re no okay with this theme!!!

Basically Eddie assumes that’s what he means when he says “give up” which Ed’s isn’t wrong but Steve doesn’t admit that yet.

Me forever projecting onto Steve with my awful mental health from high school 😘

—

—

Happy Monday! Only one page because the weather here is gross and rainy. I also impulsively cut my hair but it actually turned out great so slay!

Full comic

[artist-issues]

I’m going to talk about something potentially suicide-related, so watch out.

Music can’t save you.

I keep seeing that all over the place—seriously, all over the place, not just from actual musicians— and I feel like someone needed to say it.

All you’re really claiming when you say “music saved me” is:

Music has a powerful effect.

During a time in my life where I felt like giving up, that powerful effect changed what I was feeling so that I did not give up.

Okay those two things are true, but let’s take a step back for a second.

If you’re lost in the woods and considering giving up, sitting down, and letting yourself starve or be eaten by wild animals, a bird could have the same impact. You might look up, see a colorful shape flying through the trees, and decide to follow it. Now you’re moving. Now you’re doing something, instead of giving up—regardless of whether or not you can keep up with the bird, regardless of where it’s leading you. So sure, that is a good thing. But it’s only temporary, a bandaid solution to your problem. Even if it leads you to water, or shelter, you’re not “saved.”

You’re not “saved” until you’re no longer lost, no longer in the woods. You have to get back to your home. You have to get back to a place where you know where you are in the world, and how to get what you need, and everything makes sense again.

It is the same way with music. Or any art.

Art can remind you of what’s good, and beautiful, and yes, true. But it is not the art that saves you. It is the truth that does the saving. The art just had a hand in reminding you of it. So it would be way more accurate to say “music helped me.” But you still have to deal with whatever it was that got you to the place where you felt like giving up. And part of that is making sure that you know what the song is saying has truth in it, and that truth actually applies to the problem you’re having, because you can lean on truth, and it’s what made the music worth anything in the first place. Otherwise, the music is just a distraction, and distractions end.

In that sense, it’s more like a tiger is stalking you through those woods. You can get away from it briefly, especially if something beautiful or good or true distracts you from the thought of laying down and letting it take you. But eventually you have to kill the tiger, or get out of the woods where it lives.

Truthfully—truthfully—a song can get you out of, or into, a state of mind and emotions. But those emotions have a source. And if you don’t get rid of the source, or neutralize the source, your songs are only going to be bloody bandages on a wound. Worse, the songs might make you start to love the sight of bloody bandages, when what you really need is disinfectant and actual healing.

I do know this from experience. I’m just saying, think about it.

[lol-lmk]

I keep thinking about MK laughing and going about life as usual like nothing bad ever happened. Because everyone else wants to pretend nothing bad happened.

Then one night he shows up on Macaque's doorstep asking if they can talk.

"there's just not really, anyone to talk to about this? But I figured, you'd understand? More than anyone? I, you know how I died right? Just for a bit? It, it hurt a lot and I still have nightmares but that's not the problem! The problem is... it was kind of.... nice. There are times that I think, I think I miss it? And I know that's an awful thing to feel and everyone was so upset and-and all the people I'd leave behind and I'd never ever leave them behind. I wouldn't ever ask Pigsy to mourn me a third time. But, it was so, quiet. Peaceful. And for the first time in-in a long time, it didn't hurt. Do you ever feel that way-?"

And then Macaque hugs him and admits that no he doesn't, but it's fine that MK does. That he does deserve a break. That he'll step up temporarily and put aside grievances with Wukong and protect the planet for a while so MK can get some rest.

[blue--ingenue]

"Carve"

Author's Note: This work contains heavy themes and potentially-triggering topics including self-harm, depression, anxiety, and suicidal ideation. If any of these topics are triggering to you, please ignore this work! Please take care of yourselves, and don't read further if reading about these topics may harm your mental health.

Summary: Scorpius shouldn't be here. He's living a life he doesn't deserve to live, and every day he wishes the blood curse had taken him instead of his mother. The cuts won't bring her back, but maybe they can help him find relief.

Read on ao3

The day Astoria died a piece of Scorpius died with her. Her family’s blood curse ate away at her from the inside, and with each trip to St. Mungo’s Scorpius could hear the death knell just a bit louder than before. It didn’t matter that his mum had been deteriorating for months now. Or that he’d spent most nights curled up in her hospital bed as she stroked his hair and promised that she loved him and Draco so very much. He knew the logical progression of the disease. Since the first day of the summer holiday every minute not spent at St. Mungo’s saw him shut in the Manor’s library. By the end of the first week he had a routine: browse through the rows, cart armfuls of books to his favorite window seat, and tuck in to search for any hint of a cure. 

His mum’s death was sudden. One moment she was gazing at him, half-lidded eyes crinkled in amusement as he read to her, and the next - 

He felt the moment her hand went limp in his. He heard the last rattling breath that passed her lips. But the detail that branded itself into every nerve ending was the instant the light left her eyes. She’d been gazing at him with that same sleepy look, eyes drifting closed, and gone unnaturally still. The life in her eyes snuffed out, a candle flame snapped out of existence by the uncaring winter wind. He didn’t remember much after that. He knew that at some point, he’d screamed his lungs raw calling for a Healer, asking for Draco, and deliriously begging for his mum. 

The days between her death and the funeral passed in a similar haze. He’d read about trauma from a muggle bookstore his mum had taken him to years ago. She’d taken him out for lunch. They sat by the window of a cozy sandwich shop, and Scorpius had swung his legs back and forth from his perch upon a barstool. She ordered him sweet fizzy drinks that popped and fizzled on his tongue, little pieces of breaded chicken shaped like dinosaurs, and little sticks of salty fried potatoes. It was the best meal he had ever eaten. (He left that part out while telling his dad about it later that evening. The house elves did their very best to serve Scorpius’ favorites every day, and he didn’t want to hurt their feelings.) She took him to a bookstore afterwards. The shelves were arranged neatly, books organized into rigid rows and uncracked spines. It was nothing like Flourish And Blotts, with its precariously-leaning book towers and antique tomes stuffed into every crevice, but he enjoyed it all the same. Most of the titles had to do with muggle concepts he couldn’t begin to fathom. In the end he chose a thick hardback book filled with glossy pictures of human anatomy and little blurbs that explained the function of every part. 

He wouldn’t pick the book back up until years later, when his mother’s blood curse began affecting her more and more. He knew finding any mention of blood curses in a muggle book was a long shot, but he had to check anyway. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for his mum. He found nothing, as was expected, but a few chapters caught his attention along the way. One revolved around memory. He furtively scribbled down notes in his book journal as his eyes flitted across the pages. The muggles figured out that some things were so horrible that the brain decided to tuck away those memories for a later time. It was a defense mechanism for when life was so agonizing, the pain was incomprehensible. It left people with gaps in their memory. He hadn’t understood it at the time, but now, in the days leading up to his first Christmas without his mum, he understood perfectly. 

There were holes in his memory. He could recall a handful of individual days, like the day he asked Albus to come to the funeral, and the day they lowered the shell of his mother into a muddy pit in the ground, but only fog existed in between. Trying to remember felt like staring directly into the sun. It was painful, and futile, and he felt blinded by the intensity of it all. A pulsing pain would drum behind his eyes and reduce his breathing to shallow, choppy pants and his skin felt like it was stretched too tight over his body and then - 

And then all of a sudden, something would switch off. He’d feel like he was floating above his own body, watching himself go through the motions of life as though he were watching a scene unfold from the audience of a theater. In those moments he felt no pain. In fact, he felt nothing at all. A part of him wondered if this is what it felt like to pass away. Was his mum floating about somewhere? Impervious to pain and indifferent to the emotions and sensations that made life worth living? He’d think of his mum, pale and fading, and wonder where all that magic and love had gone once her heart stopped beating. She loved everyone and everything wholeheartedly, and Scorpius couldn’t understand how all that could just, disappear.

Despite the prejudice against muggles many in the wizarding community expressed, Astoria had adored muggle London. After Hogwarts she insisted on studying at a muggle university. Having grown up around magic all her life, she had no idea what program to pick. Most of the courses centered around concepts she’d never imagined as a girl: metal machines that were powered by invisible, charged particles, entire bodies of literature by authors unknown until now, and art that never moved, but managed to capture attention all the same. In the end, she chose music. Most instruments in the wizarding world were charmed to play by themselves, but she would always tell Scorpius that muggle music held its own special magic. The classical composers she so adored hadn’t an ounce of magic in their veins. There were no shortcuts to creating beautiful music, “soul-singing,” as she called it. In her eyes, the muggle world contained its own special magic, and she had passed this sense of wonder onto Scorpius.

In the present, a thunder arced across the sky and cleaved the air like a whip - and Scorpius flinched so hard he nearly toppled from his window seat. His heart thumped away in his chest like a terrified rabbit running from a predator and he scrabbled for his wand. He yanked the heavy velvet curtains closed and gasped out a hasty muffliato over the obscured window. He’d never been particularly bothered by thunder when he was little, but over the last few months it took very little to send him over the edge. Almost everywhere he went, it felt like everything was a bit too loud, too bright, too suffocating. Every nerve ending felt over-sensitive, his heart aching like a wound split wide and rubbed with salt. He often flinched from the intensity of it all. 

Scorpius retreated to the headboard of his canopied bed. There were only two objects set upon the forest green quilt and they glinted with the few moonbeams that had squeezed past the curtains. On the left, his wand - polished willow. On the right, a razor blade, nicked from his father’s bathroom. This he picked up with shaking fingers and a practiced hand. His eyes flicked to his bedroom door, assuring himself that the lock was in its proper position before rolling up the sleeve of his left arm and breathing deeply. The skin was smooth and unmarred. Something heavier than bile rose from the back of his throat as he raised the blade. Guilt? Shame? He couldn’t tell, and he wasn’t sure it mattered anymore.

He hesitated for a moment, a mere heartbeat. He always did. The evolutionary instinct to avoid pain at all costs kicked in, and he let it. Conflicting emotions broiled just beneath his veins, pumping through his heart and setting something alight within his chest. He felt giddy. The guilt-fear-relief pulsed behind his eyelids and quickened his breath. Static pooled in his feet and shifted on the bed, trying to shake off the tingling in his toes. It felt so good to feel something. To know that something was within his control.

He let the blade rest against the tender skin of his forearm, just a few inches away from the crook of his elbow. The steel tip felt like a pinprick. He pressed lightly against his skin and slowly traced a shallow cut into his skin. He lifted the blade and let his hand fall away. There.

By the muted moonlight he saw the cut begin to bleed. Little globules of red gathered along the line. The red clashed against his pale skin and he sighed. After every cut the fledgling sense of euphoria would wash over him, like a splash of cool water on a hot day. His arms felt like jelly as the brief adrenaline burst ebbed from his system. And as quickly as it came, the relief was gone. He lifted the razor again.

After the fourth cut he paused. Four cuts lined his forearm, each one deeper than the last. He never pressed the blade deep enough to cause permanent damage, but something close to satisfaction diffused within his chest at the sight of them. He held his arm as still as he was able and observed the red pearls adorning the supple skin. Then he tilted his arm, just enough to dislodge the droplets. They merged and gathered and flowed in rivulets all the way down his arm. The trails stopped at the crease of his wrist and he exhaled shakily. It wasn’t fair. He had his mother’s blood in him, the blood that bore a fatal curse, and yet here he sat, perfectly healthy and alive. 

There was a part of him that felt immensely guilty after each of his sessions. Sometimes he pictured his mother’s spirit watching him, gazing at the blood he wasted with each cut. Wasted vitality flowing through his veins. Would she be angry? Wherever his mum was, he hoped she couldn’t see him like this.

It should be her living and breathing within the manor walls, not him. His mum had been love and life and joy and unwavering kindness - and his birth had helped suck that all away. Growing up, his parents never missed an opportunity to tell him how loved he was. His mum would say it outright. His father was less explicit, but he showed his love in his own ways, and Scorpius never doubted either of them for a moment. They told him how they longed for a child, for him. Despite it all, Scorpius sometimes wished that he had never been born.

He’d heard of children who’d been happy surprises for their parents. Their mothers and fathers hadn’t planned to have them, but they loved them as fiercely as any parent ever loved their child. Their parents called them ‘surprises.’ He’d heard a few students in his year call themselves ‘accidents.’ Scorpius knew he was loved, knew that his parents had planned to have him. Therefore he wasn’t an accident, but a mistake. 

Having him took years off of his mum’s life and sometimes, when the darkness snaked around his throat and swallowed his heart, he believed they would’ve been better off without him. Part of him cut into his arm as a sort of apology to the universe. An apology for existing, for cutting his mother’s life short. Even on the brighter days, when the pain and grief numbed to a low thrum beneath his skin, he felt guilt. Guilt at enjoying his days, doing nothing of particular importance, when it should’ve been his mother here instead. 

His father was inconsolable and Scorpius didn’t know how to fix it. His father once told him that he was their lucky star. Despite growing up in relative isolation from other kids his age, he was always naturally content with the world, and happy to show it. Every time he giggled or laughed in glee as a chubby toddler, his parents’ faces would light up. He liked knowing that was responsible for putting those smiles there. But now his father was miserable, and Scorpius just couldn’t scrounge together the energy to lighten the darkness preying on him. Useless. 

 The stinging in his arm snapped him back to the present. He took a last look at the scarlet rivulets and the angry, puffy cuts, and muttered a simple healing charm. He didn’t think he deserved to heal the cuts, but he couldn’t risk his father seeing. Scorpius didn’t know if he’d be angry or heartbroken, or something in between. It was too high a risk. He didn’t want to risk burdening him with anything else, so after each session he vanished the cuts. 

Instead, he picked up the razor and cut four lines into the handle of his wand. Beneath it, a thick ‘V’ was cut into the wood. And closest to the end, an angry ‘I V’ was carved. He couldn’t keep the scars, but he could have this. 

Scorpius hid the razor blade in a drawer on his bedside table and ran his fingers over the carvings. He sighed. It was too much and not enough and the relief never lasted. He tucked the wand beneath his pillow and curled into a ball under the covers. He couldn’t give his mother her life back. He couldn’t avoid burdening his father with his continued existence. But he could have this. And tomorrow he’d wake up, use all his energy to forget about the dark that waited to drown him every night, pretend like nothing was wrong. But for tonight, he could have this. 

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[lovefrombegonia]

WARNING: SUICIDAL THOUGHTS

Just don't read it. I just wanna vent.

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WARNING: SUICIDAL THOUGHTS. Go away. Don't read it.

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Everyday feels like a drag or a dream. I fear that if I stop and think about it too much, I will go mad. I will claw into my fabric of existence, fall through the cracks I made and into the abyss. I am afraid of liking the idea of just slipping away and being lost forever. Even to yourself.

The only one who really cares about me is my mother. And she loves coz I am her baby. I will live for her. But after she is gone, I can't bear to imagine existing beyond her. So, maybe...I don't want to exist for that long. I want to slip away. Let the nothingness consume me. Let the reaper hold my hand after overcoming the pain of dying.

[klaineccfanficlibrary]

I’m going through a rough time and I feel like it’s easier to go through when I read fics I relate to…any fics where Kurt or Blaine are depressed or maybe they’ve gotten hurt by others and they look to the other for comfort?

Sorry to hear you're having a rough time, hope things get better soon!

The best thing to check out is our Hurt/comfort tag, as there's lots to choose from there. Watch out for trigger warnings, of course. Here are some old and recent. ~Jen

Don’t let me go (cause I’m tired of feeling alone) by Falles

What if Blaine had met Kurt when he needed him most?

~~~~~

Haunted By The Broken Record by mistyday

Once in awhile things make sense. A lot of times, they don't. Blaine Anderson and Kurt Hummel lose and find one another once again; this time under the California sunset.

~~~~~

1 800 SOS by Copper Oxide

Kurt Hummel is standing on the precipice between life and death. His last attempt at life is a shakily-dialed call to a suicide hotline, where he finds the comfort in anonymity and confides his feelings to a stranger for possibly the last time. trigger warnings: self harm, suicide attempt.

~~~~~

There's no such place by pene

When Kurt lost the things he loved the most, he hid himself away from the world - until the night Blaine crashed into his life.

This is an AU. A snowbound cabin romance. And a story where Kurt and Blaine never met, until they did.

~~~~~

Coffee, Black byquizasvivamos

Moving through life in survival mode makes stopping to breathe feel like a fatal mistake. Eventually, emotions become alien, and it’s difficult to imagine the capability of ever feeling anything again.

And then one might find himself on a precipice, which is precisely where Blaine found himself: married, thirty, and standing at the edge of Lands End.

~~~~~

I Won’t Let You Down Verse by MrsCriss2012

16 year old Blaine moves to Lima with his mom and new step family. Desperately unhappy and alone, he is befriended by one Burt Hummel who lives across the road. The pair start to restore a classic car together, but what will Blaine make of Burt’s surly 27 year old son?

[degeneracyismylegacy]

I hate that BPD and other cluster B mental illness are so "girl coded". Where are my BPD boys at ? My unstable dudes rep ? My guys with female rage, who have ED, who self harm ? Who have so little representation of their disorders and personnality that they are fans of fictionnal girls BPD coded wishing they could have the same characters being boys ? Who headcannon their favs as transmascs ?

I swear to god, I have all the love in the world for transmascs and trans men who struggle with cluster B disorders, who are unstable, addicted, suicidal, self harming, who have ED. Because we never are seen. The little representation that exists are girly girls most of the time. But you are in my thoughts. I see you.

[fightingalgth8rs]

Sneak Peek from my Detective AU (Yes I've started writing and no I still don't have a title).

trigger warning: mention of suicide and murder

The summer the Mapplethorpes were killed and my sister drove her car off the bridge was sultry and languid and I didn’t know what I was doing in Little River. It must have been a Friday because the smell of fish crackers that my neighbour fried every Friday, as if it were some sabbatical ritual, in the same old ‘reused’ oil could’ve woken this guy up. That is if he wasn’t dead as hell. He lay on the floor in his pyjamas with his brains scattered all over the rug and my gun in his hand.  

“We’ve cleared the premise, madam.”

It was six forty-five in the morning. I didn’t tell anyone that I was going to Three Mile Creek to kill myself.

I figured that was more information than people needed, plus it might interfere with my travel plans if anyone found out the truth.

“Forensics are sweeping the area madam. It’ll take about an hour.”

Six forty-seven. I should’ve been lying dead in a rain drenched ditch. Now there was a dead man in my apartment. What a day!

“Madam?” DC Wallace Wilson’s voice came cutting once again through the channel of my thoughts. An hour ago I was hoping I’d never have to hear from him again.

“Madam? I-”

“Yes I can hear you Wallace. Thank you.”

“You do understand madam that this can have strange consequences for you. I mean he was found in your apartment. And the gun. And th-”

“I said thank you Wallace,” I held my arm out, welcoming him to leave my presence as soon as he deemed fit.

“But don’t you think-”. His smirk was sickening.

“Honestly Wallace what do you have against me?”

He rubbed his greasy palms together. “I’m sorry you feel that way about me Sylvia. I only want what’s best for you.” He leaned over and I could smell his strong masculine body spray that unnerved every cell from my nose to my brain.

Something about this man unsettled me to the marrow of my bones. And it was strange because only my mother had ever been able to that to me.

“I’ll see you at the station.” I turned away and shut the paling wooden door behind me. The hallway loomed endlessly in front of me. The sounds from the gathering crowd outside prised their way through the plaster in the walls and crashed at the shores of my senses. Coupled with the silence of the corridor, the aching moan of the old building and the murmur of the forensic guys, the rustle of their plastic bags and latex gloves, made by breath hitch up in my throat.

Little River had found yet again to keep me at home.

🌞Meena. x

@reloha @do-angels-dream-of-starry-seas @dtmsrpfcringe @literatemisfit @helpits4am

@aq2003 @princeloww @davidtennantgenderenvy @suburbia-and-brentwood-market

[allowed-to-take-up-space]

Something I've been thinking about a lot is the way my father would critique and stereotype every single person he saw, yet still insist he wasn't judgmental.

We are in the car, my dad driving, me in the passenger seat. I am a child, maybe 11 years old. My father points at the girl standing on the corner, waiting for the light to change. "Yikes. Good thing she's out walking. Looks like she needs it. Bet she's hoping she'll fit into the outfit she's wearing someday."

"Dad, that's not a nice thing to say about someone."

"It's fine. She can't hear me. I would never say something like that to someone's face. You know, MY dad was homophobic and racist, so at least I'm better than that."

Maybe that girl on the corner didn't hear my father. But I did. And I've never forgotten it. Or the time I finally admitted to him - after YEARS of being a suicidal teen - that I was extremely depressed, and he told me I was one of those kids making shit up for attention, because HE had been in a car crash at one point and experienced REAL depression.

And yet I always ponder, now, how I could possibly be so insecure. Why I cannot just accept myself and move forward. Why I look at myself in the mirror with disgust.

It's HIS voice that echoes in my head. It's HIS nasty remarks that I remember. It's HIS judgmental opinions that I have to rid from my brain, every single time they pop up, because I KNOW better.

Even though I haven't spoken to my dad in several years now, the way he treated myself and others invades my mind constantly. His negativity has shaped so much of me - of my LIFE - and last time we DID speak, he still refused to take any accountability for the multitude of ways in which he hurt me (this specific topic not even covering 1/10 of the ways in which he did).

Furthermore, this makes me think about all the people who utter "harmless comments" about others when they don't think someone who might be hurt by that is listening. I've been privy to many conversations that have left me feeling hollow, without the folks making those judgmental comments realizing that what they've said applies to me. And I don't often feel safe enough to stand up for myself.

I wish folks could realize that openly passing heinous judgment on strangers is a gateway to passing judgment on people you care about.

"I would never say something like that to someone's face."

You said it to mine.

[madeofmosaic]

'appetizer' a.k.a i wrote a poem instead of searching for a therapist.

I don’t think I’m hungry any more.

I think I lost my appetite a long time ago.

I simply eat because I was taught the need for food.

the thought of food makes my stomach turn into knots and makes my throat narrow.

even my body refuses to eat and rejects the food I push down my throat.

I eat because I was taught to be grateful for it, like how a stray dog is thankful for being fed.

I only eat because someone goes out of their way to put food in front of me.

I was taught to yearn for food, like how a stray dog yearns for food in the trash bin.

maybe it's because of the blood in me.

maybe it’s the sickness that runs through the blood and gets passed down.

I don’t want more of their blood, so I stopped eating.

I started to remove the blood from my veins, I thought if I removed it, I could gain back my appetite.

but I didn’t want to leave this world behind.

I still wanted to cherish the food that they put in front of me.

so sucked it up and ate even when the food tasted weird, was slightly off colour, or had weird parts in it that I didn’t like.

I suffered through every meal, so that they wouldn’t be pushy about the fact that I’ve lost my appetite.

I’ve lost my appetite when I was a child, and maybe I’ll never get it back.

maybe I've lost it because of the blood in my veins.

maybe I’ve lost while playing outside.

maybe I left it at an old friend's house.

maybe my appetite left when you did.

maybe I’ve left it at my grandmother’s house.

I wonder if I could go back, I could retreat it from a childhood memory.

maybe I could retreat lost memories of you, too, in hopes that I can bring you into the future with me.

create another universe where you never left, and neither did my appetite.

sometimes I think I need to blame myself for being careless.

deep down, I know it was never really my fault.

perhaps it just runs in my blood.