And if that doesn’t explain why the winter makes me sad
Then I don’t think you could ever understand depression.
Everyone is swimming towards the shore;
Somehow my feet have touched the ocean floor.
I used to think that it took bricks tied to ankles to
Force myself to sink.
I’ve realized now I’ve been the anchor for my own ship all these years.
I am gasping for air even while standing on solid ground,
You can’t see it but I feel the water in my lungs.
I’m not afraid of being sad
I’m afraid that I will never find that happiness again.
It’s irrational but if it made sense
Do you think I’d have written a few dozen poems about it?
And it’s not like some miracle pill is going to make me feel like the summer again.
Everyone entertains Christmas in July
But I just want July during Christmas.
I can’t stand the feeling of ants crawling in my veins,
My teeth grazing the inside of my cheek until I bleed
Out all the anxiety inside of me.
This body isn’t even two decades old
So maybe I just need a few more years to break it in,
I’m just worried that it might break down before I get that chance.
I worry about a lot of things that will never happen,
Like ghosts in my windowpanes and skeletons in the floorboards,
Or ending up alone.
I don’t need to sell out my funeral,
But I’m nervous I won’t have any attendees.
If you can’t think of anything to say,
Because I know I wouldn’t,
You can read this poem as my eulogy.
You can explain that it doesn’t take a casket, a few nails
And a flatline on an EKG to know
That I slept in bed with death,
Instead it can happen long before a heartbeat begins to freeze.
It happens when depression wrings you by the throat,
Squeezing so hard
You kiss the ground with your knees.
I’ve been choking since the day I learned how to breathe. ❞
"Read This As My Eulogy" - Nishat Ahmed (via sickwithsyllables)
Josephine Hart (via smalltownatlantis)
i could wear the same shirt 25 times in a row and it would still be none of your business 25 times in a row
I lost my sexual body confidence somewhere around when I had to give up my burlesque dancing. I don’t remember the last time I felt attractive and I don’t remember the last time I treated myself to beautiful new underwear which used to be a weekly occurrence.
All I know is it’s been over a year since I looked in the mirror and liked what I saw. That’s an awful long time.
and when I leave you will finally understand
why storms are named after people. ❞
There are no Jack Kerouacs or Holden Caulfields for girls. Literary girls don’t take road-trips to find themselves; they take trips to find men.
"Great" books, as defined by the Western canon, didn’t contain female protagonists I could admire. In fact, they barely contained female protagonists at all.❞
It’s Frustratingly Rare to Find a Novel About Women That’s Not About Love - Kelsey McKinney - The Atlantic (via siberiana)