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my dead gay brother becomes memore and more i am becoming an invisible monster.

i can't cry without an audience
i am willing to bend and bend and bend and
break
to just get a little
love love love lovelvoe lvoelve love love love
love me
i will do anything for you if you just tell me you love me
i am a nobody
with backbreaking pains to become something beautiful
and if i can't have that
i want to be invisible
i want to be nothing
and still
oh how i wish it wasn't so
but still
as nothing as i am
i want you to love me.
a letter to ethanyou're fifteen minutes away.

that's a quarter of an hour, that's ten miles, that's space enough that i never have to see you again.

but still i feel my heart beating like a rabbit's foot against my rib.

look.

i'm a girl still in denial
of being a woman with
breasts and hips and a womb.  
i'm a child with my heart and i will surrender it foolishly
to the first boy to give me roses and push them into my hair.  
i don't know how to love,
the way i don't know how how to stop.

but let me tell you this- it happens.
they both do.

i loved your fragile brown eyes like i'd never seen a warmer fire.  
i sank my bones like an anchor to
why jk rowling embodies depression as dementorsi wanted to talk to you about happiness
but i don't think anyone in this room is qualified to talk about something
they probably don't know much about, and
how it spends most of its time
seeping out of your skin in whatever ways it can
because maybe your body is too toxic for it.

that's when you start having your moment.

the moment when you're not sure
how to be alive,
when strings become nooses
in the stars of your eyes,
thin objects mock your bones
and the instruments of your heart
act like knives thirsting for blood.

pavement shatters underfoot.
the cracks become teeth,
sharp and unfriendly as you pass;
they're grey, great
how not pretending anymore is a blessingi won't pretend to anyone that i'm not scared. here i am, standing before god-knows-how-many-people, telling them things i don't have the heart to even tell my mother. especially things i don't have the heart to tell my mother.
i could never tell her how many times i've looked at the stars and used them to hold onto my wishes on paper strings, make them hold onto my wishes and me, mostly me, like a marionette
until the sky faded from black to blue, just like the bruises i put on my skin. sometimes a girl doesn't know how to cope, and that's why those paper strings, those thin, angry lines hanging from the heavens,
found their ways to my ar
things i don't know about you that bother me thati wonder what it's like
to fall asleep beside you
in a post coital haze,
and to wake in the morning
to run to class.
do you wake me,
do you kiss my forehead,
do we make love again-
i don't know,
not yet.

and do you wet your toothbrush
before applying toothpaste,
oh,
tell me you don't leave the sink running,
it must get awfully tired.

and what do you dream of
when i lie next to you,
blissfully more than just a body;
what will you dream of
a year from now?
please tell me i can fit into
your big picture
as easily as i can fit into
your arms,
eternally.
revelations in the mudi only want to fall in love
if someone is there
to fall with me.

i want to jump from high places
and pretend i'm flying,
i'm a bird, i'm light enough at-fucking-last
for the air to catch me,
and the harsh grounds beneath me?
can't touch this.

but i'm earthbound
and parachutes will not work
if you do not open them,
and i am just so sick
of feeling like maybe,
becoming an abstract painting
on the rocks below, would be enough...

but there is something beating in my chest.
i'm very afraid of what it is.

and i don't know a lot,
like the size of the universe.
or why you sought solace in the south.
or how i came to be in this cr
a thorough submissioni have found my heart-
it has put itself into this.
my hesitations are little more
than bad habits,
filed somewhere between
biting my nails and always saying i'm sorry.

the expectation of the winds
blowing softer til they ceased
ended with your mouth on mine;
the nerves fraying from fear
have been tended to with needle and thread;
and the water i so wiklfully wouldn't touch
feels warmer as it inches
like your hands
up my ankles to my bare knees.

i have found my heart-
it has put itself into this.
my stomach turns the ocean calm
when i think of the messes i'll make,
and the sewing you will stitch.
and i'm terrified
like ni
an open letter to a rekindled relationshipwe have travelled thousands of miles;
we have felt spite and fear for diminished feelings;
we have played this game for far too long.

last night we missed hearing others' poetry
to make our own.
i was not afraid of skin,
and you were not afraid to feel.
we were born with instinct for a reason:
follow it.

realising what you want is half the battle.
my other half is hesitation-
my other half is you.

i still swell with emotions my therapist
can't help me label
when i remember how you said
you weren't over me.
and how we joined again,
with an interim year,
and a new understanding of emotion
adding to and balancing the physical.
life without youi watched you,
bone-handled
battered and floral
suitcase in hand,
as your knotted tree-branch fingers
grip the doorhandle.

i watched you
disappear
before the door swung
shut.
i saw your thin skin
slip between pavement
and cracks in the concrete
city walls.
your keys sunk through
the hole in your pocket
and are sitting at the
side of the sink,
your lunch in the bowels
of the toilet.

i watched your mouth
of broken teeth
spit vitriol soundlessly,
your tendons splitting
from your frame,
you have unravelled into nothing,
i watched you
pack your things and
i smiled.
the vomiting crowd of coney islandthe destructive walls are shaded
in grey and i am remembering
every feeling i have forgotten-

i am terrified.

this is a city that never sleeps,
the bones of my chest thrumming
like taxi cabs in the streets,
my fingers shaking
in want for comfort and solace
and love.

i am not standing
in lorca's vomiting crowd-
i am his vomiting crowd,
looking high and low
and between my clenched fists
for catharsis and purification,
for the reason of this illness
pressed against my skin,
for the indefinable sickness
i drown in like bubbles of spit
day in and day out.

i fear the restraints
i've placed for myself,
that they may not be the
the most terrifying thing in the worldnever knowing.
first weekend and realisationsyou begin to talk
because talking means that
someone else can't
&you start to realise
(as most girls do)
that you have a boyfriend

&soon
he's not just a boyfriend;
he's your boyfriend
&he's not just better than
anyone else in the world
he's better than
anything else in the world

&you would trade years off your life
to spend a little longer with him
or to see him smile when he's sad
or to feel his face in your hair
the way he does when he hugs you
&you can't feel it
because right now he's too far away

but distance is only the space between
point a and point b
between you&between me
&if you give it just a little more tim
a lack of language, in coloursyou tell me you miss me
and that i am more beautiful
than any girl in georgia
or even barcelona.

everything is fitting like magic
between fingers when they
finally, finally
touch,

and i swear for the past three nights,
that's all i've dreamt.

give me acrylics
and i still can't make you see
the exact shade of warm
you are to me.

give me the ocean
and there are not enough waves
in its body
to show just the way i feel
when our own vessels move together.

seven months since we last said goodbye,
since we last said hello-
i could fill libraries
with reasons
to love you.

what i really want to ask
is if you think you can
barcelona is burningi owe you an apology-
you, in the crowd,
the one panicking about reading
or the mess at home
or the sheer volume of people
pressing into you like corners;

you,
the woman who birthed me into this world
through hours of agony
as though that wasn't enough
because doctor appointment after therapy appointment after residential stay after thirtieth pound lost,
i've put you through countless
sleepless nights
warped into months of agony
you never asked for;

and you, oh, mostly you.
you, because as hard as i've beaten my own heart into the wall,
and as deep as i let you bury mine,
i know, somehow, i managed to do the same to you.

yo
unending, ceaselessnothing exists
better
than the moment
hesitant
anticipatory
of entrance
entranced
by the sway
porch swings
of hips
how pendulums
tick

and we talk
murmurs
until taciturnity
takes hold
of each others' tongues
and gasps
sudden
cause gaps
in the connection
unbreakable
as unity
unties
only to retie
in ceaseless
reunion
again.
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More from *ohsostarryeyed

ill have you know im scaredi lied, i lied, a thousand times i lied.

i don't know who this story is about. i don't know if it's an 'i,' 'you,' 'he,' or 'she' story. i'll probably pick three and rotate them.  because when you think about it, doesn't it happen to us all?

i was found dead on the road. i hear i was contorted and bloody, only the blood wasn't my own, and i died simply because i was afraid. i always thought that was so fucking ironic- i was fucking scared to death.

and every time she's walking down the street, the girl who might've been me, the girl whose blood i was found in though she's also dead, i cringe. because she hears people crowing about amusemen
nonexistent people"something's wrong."

"what makes you say that?"

"your shirt is white."

"so?"

"so, it's just white. there's nothing on it- no dirt, no ink, no blood."

"i guess you're right."

"then what's wrong?"

"i don't remember how to speak."

"you're talking right now."

"that's irrelevant."

"yeah?"

"yeah. i'm running my mouth but i'm saying nothing. i'm thinking all these things, and can't say them. i'm sitting straight but everything's angled and i think i'm falling when i'm only standing still."

"i think you said that very well."

"then maybe i forgot how to see."

"have you?"

"maybe. i'm missing something. like it's on the tip of my nose but
if i could be who you want,i've figured you out, as you
are drawing letters for
any girl who touches your heart
but not inside your thigh;
a letter for a pair of breasts made for
every twist of your alphabet

a scattering of curved lines or straw bones
arrange into meanings,
condensing people into a swift penstroke
for under a heartbeat.

you cannot bear to etch a full name,
you cannot cry with seven letters
beneath your breath,
you cannot pretend a letter stands for
something real, just the same as you
cannot pretend it does not.

i have you drawn in black and white-
crying in corners,
watching men, women, and children
pass as you wish they were your
north station"why is it you always come home covered in blood?"

"because i never bring a change of clothes with me."

"is it your blood this time, or someone else's?"

"oh, it's rebecca's."

"why is rebecca bleeding?"

"i think she's stopped by now."

"glad to hear it, but why was she bleeding in the first place?"

"right. rebecca got hit by a train."

"gosh- is she alright?"

"yeah, of course."

"shit, good thing. man, what happened?"

"i told you, rebecca got hit by a train."

"no shit. i mean, how did she get hit by the train?"

"well, see, she was on the tracks at the moment the train was-"

"fuck off. you know what i mean."

"i'm just messing with y
federal express EDITon wednesdays, anne would wake up at nine o'clock.

she would take a shower at nine-thirty, after she made herself a small cup of coffee with a teaspoon of sugar and a drop of milk.

by ten o'clock, she was dressed. anne would spend the next hour and a half in the kitchen, baking cranberry scones and picking tea leaves from the small pot next to the coffee grinder.

at eleven-thirty, anne would be finished with the scones and fresh tea. she would take to pacing in front of the large picture windows at the front of her house-  he would be here in thirty minutes.

anne's nervous tics showed when she was pacing. her fingers would wrap around her
Vulpes vulpesveins creep along the inner corner
of your elbow, like ivy on fire or
foxes flying from tree stumps,
the ones i hear screaming outside my window-

like lonely people crowded on a
train and sitting in ugly silence while
their hands call to be held.

the foxes make me cry,

and i forget to breathe
until we pigeon-step into the

vanishing points of the sky-
it's like
no one even knows anymore;
no one remembers to think
it's beautiful to see the skyline melt; it's
everything and nothing -- you and me, respectively.

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August 27, 2012
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[x]

bipolar II

:iconohsostarryeyed:

a week is spent
in throes of excitability,
irritation, unstoppable words,
and ideas with wings of their own-
they soar in their preternatural flight
without a second's notice
and meander along separate currents.

sleep is an elusive,
abstract idea,
fought for so ruthlessly,
only to have it slip away,
silent,
mere hours later.

i am icarus, resin-winged in thought
and flying til my fingers can
almost
brush the sun.

i am icarus, resin-winged in thought
and watching my feathers drop
until my body
is subject once more
to the relentless rules of gravity.

hitting the dirt
hurts more every time-
physics has no mercy for bruised bones.
refusal to meet my mother's gaze,
to speak when spoken to,
and to move from the cave of my bedroom
become expected.

i know how the sun feels
when it sinks below the earth,
and the struggle of the moon
as it thrashes to rise.
the endless circle
from night and day
grows so tiresome that sometime,
i swear
it will just
cease.
:iconohsostarryeyed:
not sure if i told you about my diagnosis of three or so weeks ago.

but anyway.

hypomania is fading and i am scared for the crash that will ensue.
Add a Comment:
 
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:iconwise-lies:
~Wise-lies Sep 2, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
This is a very interesting poem, and it is relatable as I am bipolar too. Your poem really spoke to me. Excellent writing.
Reply
:iconohsostarryeyed:
*ohsostarryeyed Oct 7, 2012
thank you kindly <3
Reply
:iconkaitforest:
*KaitForest Aug 31, 2012   Writer
i know how the sun feels
when it sinks below the earth,
and the struggle of the moon
as it thrashes to rise.
the endless circle
from night and day
grows so tiresome that sometime,
i swear
it will just
cease.

and that
that that that that

yes

everything there is just
so true, so so

:+favlove:
Reply
:iconohsostarryeyed:
*ohsostarryeyed Oct 7, 2012
thank you so very much, love. i do enjoy hearing your feedback <3
Reply
:iconkaitforest:
*KaitForest Aug 31, 2012   Writer
we're all essentially things that rise to fall, don't feel to imprisoned or different
you are beautiful

and these are things i say to myself so it doesn't hurt (the rise, fall, or consciousness that i am predictable and diagnosable (this means 'me, too')) so i say them to you, just in case you and i feel the same.

this is beautiful and so close to me right now, i just love the way you word things
Reply
:iconezliribs-apprentice:
~ezliribs-apprentice Aug 31, 2012  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
excellent writing as always
and best of luck in whatever you feel
emotions are hard:)
Reply
:iconohsostarryeyed:
*ohsostarryeyed Oct 7, 2012
thank you!!
Reply
:iconcatmunk:
!Catmunk Aug 29, 2012
i know how the sun feels
when it sinks below the earth,
and the struggle of the moon
as it thrashes to rise.
the endless circle
from night and day
grows so tiresome that sometime,
i swear
it will just
cease. <3

i love your words
Reply
:iconohsostarryeyed:
*ohsostarryeyed Oct 7, 2012
thank you, dear <3
Reply
:iconstarshinexx:
~starshinexx Aug 28, 2012  Student Writer
Im diagnosed as depression and anxiety disorder but no one believes me when I suggest I might have bipolar. I have manic episodes too, they scare me massively.
Reply
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