3 Months of Solitary

Month One.

A single flower

Blooming

in a dark room

fed Confusion,

Disgust,

and 

Frustration. 

Month Two. 

Flowers

grow

even in the darkest

places,

even the most

beautiful flowers,

find

solitude

in a lonely

garden.

Month Three.

the flower

sprouts

a

bud.

stop forcing yourself

I am starting to realize
that my alone time
is just as valuable
than my time with others.
I am learning this,
after years of forcing myself
to be in an overwhelming amount
of social situations,
for too long
for the sake of society's
"guidelines".
I am happier now.

me

I am combination of demons,
blended in with the most beautiful
flowers.
I am a thunderstorm,
on a summer day.
Don't let me
destroy you
with love.

the motions of my mind

I am teaching myself
how to be comfortable with
crying one second,
then smiling the next.

Reminders and Directions

Maybe the sunshine goes out
in my eyes,
when I need to remember
how I got through the
darkness.

To Rest

here I am,
carrying a chip on my shoulder
that gives me the illusion of
carrying the
world on
my back.
Such a small thing,
causing so many problems
and I am still supposed to smile.
spare me
the "i have to be strong"
bullshit,
sometimes I just want
to lay down my head,
and
rest until I feel sane again.

you are the strongest tree

honey,
you are as sweet as sugar.
your words soothe aching souls.
your arms have embraced
not only the most broken,
but also yourself.
don't give up on yourself.
don't give up on the love you
have to give.
let yourself grow,
lose leaves,
break some branches.
just remember you are getting
stronger,
making room for
better leaves.
gaining stronger roots.

shine your light loudly so others can hear

you are
an edible collection
of letters,
a cluster of words
that spell out
the most delectable
chocolate.
you are all of the riches,
that the queen wears
to a ceremony
of the departing of a life,
and all of the control
the king has over
his largest army.
you are a paradox,
a combination of far right
and far left ideas,
a beautiful safe containing
love letters,
a tragic mess of heartbreaks.
stop hating yourself,
when you are the one
that has been pulling yourself up
all of these years.
you're worth a beautiful symphony
of words.
sing the song of
your soul
loudly.

ill love the parts of you that you hate

if you can trust me,
let me speak light
into your wounds
to brighten up the places
that people have ruined
with their darkness.
let me bandage the places
with love,
to remind you that you are still,
as well as have been,
and always will be
beautiful.
that your soul is more than just
a container for
other people's problems.
it is more than the
cuts,
scars,
burns,
it is a beautiful
collection of
stars.

love is my lighthouse

and sometimes,
the only words I feel like
whispering out
are "I" "love" "you".
it's the only thing
that comforts me,
when things have gotten
too dark.

recovery intertwined with relapse

just when I think that
the world has stopped spinning
too fast for me to catch my breath,
and the sea has slowed down
so I can stop drowning
in its salty arms,
I get washed over
by a wave of
frustration,
anxiety,
despair,
and I have to learn to crawl again,
to the sand,
so I can rest.

you let the poison seep into my wounds

learn to let go
of the ones
that douse
your name in poison
when they speak it.

why "cool" doesn't describe mental illnesses.

In no ways is it beautiful.
I do not feel glamorous.
It is cold.
It is the constant want to stay in bed.
It is loud and quiet
all at the same time.
Breaking yourself into little pieces,
watching yourself crumble,
and learning how to pick yourself up
all over again.
It is missing a meal,
to missing two meals,
to losing twenty pounds
to missing your appetite.
It is not "pretty",
It is not something to aspire to be.
I've gotten to watch the monsters
I was afraid of,
crawl from under my bed
to under my sheets,
and inside of my mind.
I am drowning,
and swimming at the same time.
A cycle of recovery,
relapse,
realization.
You teach yourself
how to save yourself.
This is a type of sadness,
the ones who have it,
don't want it to be.