Saturday, March 16, 2013

I Want To Write

I want to write until my fingers bleed,
until someone has to bandage them for me and say,
I need you to stop for a while, do this for me.
I want to write until I can't anymore because I'm crying
and my tears are falling on my keyboard
and the keys are so slick that I cannot even type the reason that I'm crying.
I want to write until I don't have anymore stories to tell,
until my memories have been written down by
an artist named Liam or
a young mother named Nina.
I want to write until I die,
all the way up to those last few seconds.
I want my last words to be,
you know how it's going to end,
finish it because I can't anymore.
I want someone there to hear them.
I want to write until I starve,
to become so caught up in the world in my head that
I forget
to even eat.
I want to write not for myself,
but for my friends,
for the children who cannot write for themselves,
for the people who love me because of my faults.
(There are few.)
I want to write until people hear me,
until they understand
And until they wish they had done something differently.
I want to write and change someone's mind,
to impress someone who had thought so little of me,
who told me I wouldn't make it because (_____).
I want to write until my fingers bleed my words,
Until someone kisses my knuckles and asks me to come to bed,
And until I get a letter that makes me cry because I know I have helped someone.

Saturday, March 2, 2013

Sleep (Is For People Without Mental Illnesses)

I have a strong dislike for sleep.
People say,
That's not healthy,
You should get some sleep,
How late were you UP?
And I say,
No.
I have a very, very strong dislike for sleep.
When I sleep, and I dream, and I remember my dreams, I never want to wake up because
Nothing is ever as good as my dreams.
Nothing.
And before I sleep, my mind wanders and I think,
What were your reasons?
Why can't I be good enough,
Smart enough,
Pretty enough.
Why wasn't I enough?
And I do things - this you say are bad before bed - so that I don't cry and cry and cry and suffocate in my own emotions.
I read all night.
I have my earbuds in and listen to other people's pain and it makes me feel less alone.
I organize my closet and clean my desk and make art.
I let myself be absorbed into places and words and stories where I don't have to think and I won't ever have to think
Because I have found that when I think,
I cry and cry and cry and suffocate in my own emotions,
And I hate that.
I hate it and there isn't anything I can do about it except read all night, have my earbuds in and listen to other people's pain and organize my closet and clean my desk and make art.
And I get up when I wake up, when I have slept enough, and if I miss things en it's the worlds fault for making me this way.
Isn't that enough?