it must be the depression.

I’m not great at repetition.

When you are awake at 2.35am, feeling like crap
It must be the depression.
When you are making instant noodles to fill the void,
It must be the depression.

When you can’t tell whether you are happy with a poem,
It must be the depression.
When you can’t think of a good reason to skip school other than “I’m tired”,
It must be the depression.

It is easy to chalk everything up to the lack of a chemical in your brain
Just as easy as getting out of bed
When you aren’t able to find a good reason to wake up
So you say it must be the depression
Even though it no longer sounds valid.

When you are just so tired of trying to find a valid reason to live
Eat
Breathe
It is just so much easier to say that you are tired.

When your friends asks you why your eyes are puffy
It is just that much easier to say you watched a sad movie where the dog dies
Than say that you were watching said movie at 3am trying to feel something
And you weren’t crying because the dog died.

When you are too worn out to feel anything
When you are too apathetic to care if the house is on fire
When you are too fucking frustrated that you can’t just feel something while reading an emotional poem

It is easier to just say that you are tired
Even if
It must be the depression.

-End-

Musings of a Slut

I’ve been too obsessed on posting poetry and photography simultaneously, instead of posting poems that I’m proud of having written. So I’m going to stop being so uptight about my format from now on.

Enjoy the poem!

It’s no one’s fault
But sometimes I am feathering along the hips of a lover
Whose love will dissolve in spit by morning.
Sometimes I crave touch that must be paid for first
In the form of climaxes.

I know-
There are better ways to gain affection
There are healthier ways to be loved
Like alcoholism, because you never drink alone
Like drugs, because your doctor will always prescribe xanax
Like insomnia, because there is always someone in Texas who’s awake enough to hold a conversation with you.

Continue reading “Musings of a Slut”

Dead To Me

Pictured: My Ball-Jointed doll, Mindy. 

Submitted on Day 26 of #SingPoWriMo2017

She shimmered under the moonlight, your fingertips brushed over her rivers and valleys, the dip and rise of her mountains, forests and hills. And you breathed hot air on her neck, straining yourself to fit your hands around all of her, trying to hold everything you wanted closer.

I like to think that she had died in your arms. It’s comforting, in a way, to know that she had disappeared together with my memory of you. I’d like to think of her self-destruction as the moment you took her into your arms.

Continue reading “Dead To Me”