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.

the motions of my mind

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

be big

when the person that you love,
treats you like you are not worthy
of their love,
let them go.
their love is toxic to you,
and will teach you to belittle yourself.
you need to grow.

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.

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.