I’m mad at myself for my sickness,

Causing me to submit to sucking on your cigarette tainted fingertips.

I’m mad at myself for being helpless,

Switching pills to pills for a condition that’s relentless.

I’m mad at myself for my weakness,

Allowing your hands to wander the places that make me powerless.

I can still taste you in my mouth,

I hate it.

My legs shake when you speak of all the things you want to do to me,

And I resent it.

I did unspeakable things, behind the back of my Love, with you.

What have I sucummbed to?


I can’t hide this anymore.

I can’t deny, lie, pretend every minute of every day anymore.

Hiding how I feel is what started this illness and brought forth the complications that are happening today.

And I am terrified.

I am terrified to the very core of my being that if I can’t speak out for myself, it won’t be crumbs swept under the rug but rather my body.

Every nerves remember.

The tremors, the tachycardia, the nightmares… manifests from this distress.

I don’t hold the control to my mind anymore.

What more symptoms will show?

How much longer can I go on failing to handle this before it becomes noticable enough to not be dismissed as “weak faith”?


Is this “the test” I was given from Him? And that’s as far involvement as you’re willing to be?


Positive affirmations from myself to myself are free of charge.

Yes, positive affirmations…

Like loose, thin thread you hold onto.

I’ve got hair extensions stronger and longer

Long enough to wrap tightly around my neck when I feel up to it.

I’ve been on pill rotation

switching from one to another medication

each time they fail at stabilization

of the neurotransmitters that make me feel unsafe in my own head.

And the papers don’t come in like they used to no more.

The papers, as fragile as they are, seem to slice through any “communtity” we need in these times of need.

You can’t ask for help without commission.

Can’t afford to be ill. No, I can’t.

Ghost Story.

We tell ghost stories
Of how we watched love ones disappear before us
Yet live in the same house, study in the same school, work in the same place, and lost character within plot holes.
We tell ghost stories
Of who we were to people who never knew us before the change
Same eyes, different tone, same body, yet older and grown
Longer bones, heavier soul and broken.
How did we reach here?
When will now become the next ghost story?

How do I want to retell this story?


There are bugs in my cereal.
Mold growing on my vegetables.
Dust collecting on my desk.
Stains on my bedsheet.

Empty pill bottles in my drawers.
Deads flowers outside my window.
Concrete beneath my back
And sky above my body.

I am so tired.
So very very tired.
I am not allowed to be this tired.
Don’t have the leisure to be very tired.


I’m not trying to please people. I’m just trying to exist without my past.

I’m trying to exist as who I wanted to be. Not as who I was conditioned to be.


Funny how the mind remembers.

Old tunes, phrases, sights and emotions wading through my dreams vividly. Who was that girl? Was that really me?

How come no one did something for her when she clearly needed help?

Because no one, bared witness.

Funny how the body remembers.

My body remembers what it felt like to be disregarded. Too well. I’ve got to be careful because any minor glance away doesn’t go unnoticed.

I’m trapped in an agonizing body, toxins rushing through my blood. Can’t run with weak legs, can’t talk with stiff cords, can’t breathe with tight chest. Black waters drowning me on land.

I’m a child all over again. Helpless.


I am falling tired of inviting myself into conversations, jokes, parties, hangouts

Opening up like a title sequence

Speaking in repetition to be heard

Inserting myself in between solid relationships

Colouring myself into your world

I’m falling tired of laughing to all your jokes even when I dont understand them just to be a part of the moment

Feet blistering from trying to catch up

Back aching from carrying myself up

Maybe, just maybe, it’s time to stop and allow myself to be left behind


Negative 15.

“Look, if you don’t want me here then I could just leave.”

I don’t say anything.

“I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s wrong.”

I can’t say it. I shouldn’t say it.

He stares at me, tapping his thumb against his thigh.

Impatiently. I knew I shouldn’t have called him. This was a stupid idea.

A single tear slips through the cracks, and I look down at my feet. My shame is overbearing and everything inside me is screaming to tell him to leave. Whatever you do, you can’t be left alone. Not even for a second.

You’ve got to tell him.

I look up at him, mouth beginning to make a sound… but lose all language from his eyes. Frustration.

Push. Through.

I exhale and slide onto the floor, crossing my legs.

“What is it?”

Fuck this. This is stupid. “I’m just a bit stressed, that’s all. It’ll pass,” it won’t, “I just need some time to myself.”

“You sure?”

No. “Yes.”


“Okay. Listen, I’ll tell them that you just needed to take a walk. I’ll be back to check on you in a bit, alright?”

“Alright,” the word comes out without sound.

He picks up his bag from the floor – Don’t! – and turns for the door – Let him leave you alone!

“Minus 15!” I blurt out.

He stops in his tracks, hand on the door handle. His brows furrow in confusion.

“On a scale,” I slowly begin, “from positive 10 to negative 10.” My heart starts clenching in my chest, but I focus on his shoes as they turn in my direction and push through. “Positive numbers for healthy mental state and negative numbers for unhealthy mental state.” I stop.

If I continue, I will no longer be playing by the rules of society or reality… all or dead?

Maybe, all then dead.

“Negative 1 is good, for me. Negative 4 being anxious but managing. Negative 7 being bad and I need a break. Negative 9 means extreme distress…”

I hesitate now because he moved away from the door and dropped his bag back on the floor.


“Ne-negative 10, feeling… suicidal.” I look at my backpack I’ve set on the opposite side of this classroom. I take a shaky breath, “Negative 15.”

He follows my line of sight to my backpack and then back at me.

“What’s in the bag?” he asks.

I look up at him and slowly shake my head as tears fall silently.

“Oh. Ah. Okay,” he moves and settles down on the floor in front of me. “Ha-How can I help?”

How do you say it? I close my eyes and place my interlocked hands over my head and confess quickly, “I don’t know! I- I just- I- its- uh- “I exhale. And start again, “You get to a point where your mind is fighting against you and all things rational are gone. And then my heart-” my throat tightens.

He waits attentively for me to finish. But then images flood my mind, and I can’t say what they show. I shouldn’t.

“But then your heart…” he gently nudges. “Your heart… knows what’s right? Is saying this isn’t the answer?” He suggests.

“Is the reason why I dragged you into this room.”

I open my eyes and look at him. Really look at him. I watch as the words settle in, and suddenly I can’t sit still.

I get up and start heading for my backpack. He jumps to his feet right behind me. “Hold on, hold on hold on!”

I stop and turn around.

“Wait! Just wait.” He forces out a breath, “I’m not sure what you mean by that.”

I start pacing back and forth, words are just words, and they mean nothing at this point.

“I see you,” I start, “and based on the way you are, you seem like you could be a great friend if we were to be friends. I’ve had this idea for a long time. But also, I feel more, and I’m scared of what that is. And then, beyond my control, you are there in my dreams, exactly like how I’d picture us being friends but we’re also more.

It’s crazy, I know. We barely know each other and out of nowhere I start being- “mental, “this. Dragging you into a classroom, telling you that I’m not okay and that I dream about you. Textbook crazy. But with everything going on… I go through the day living like I shouldn’t even be here, and then when I’m asleep, you make me feel like I do belong here.

It’s frustrating! Because I feel crazy. For what? Having feelings? Is it crazy that I hate feeling alone? Is it crazy that I just want to be honest? Is it crazy that I’m afraid? Is it crazy that I just want to tell you to kiss me?” I stop and look at him with probably crazy wide eyes. At this point, I’m shaking.

He doesn’t say anything. His eyes wandering everywhere except on me. Yet I wait and wait. And he doesn’t say anything.

Wrap it up, Crazy. It’s over.

I take a deep shaky breath and try to pull myself together. I head over to my backpack and place it on the nearest table.

With as much sanity as I can muster, I backtrack slowly, “Never mind, okay? I’m just at a place that I shouldn’t have dragged you in. I apologize for making you emotionally hostage to this situation. Everything that I have said is all random thoughts that do not matter, and you can leave now if you want to. This feeling will pass, and I’ll calm down eventually. We can both pretend afterward that this never happened. Fair?”

I wait for him to agree and leave. But he has his eyes focused on me, unconvinced, calculating.

“If I leave… you’ll kill yourself.” He doesn’t state it as a question, but it’s implied.

“That’s not going to happen, and you don’t have to worry about- “

“Don’t lie to me,” he cuts in.

I press my lips together, straight as an arrow, “Yes.”

I freeze as he locks the classroom door and can only watch as he heads over to me. He reaches for my backpack and chucks it into the cupboard before locking the door and slipping the key into his pocket.

“Negative 15?”

I’m confused, but I nod.

“Let me help you then get it down to negative 7.”

My stomach starts twisting as he gently takes my hands in his and pulls me away from the cupboard. He leads me into the supplies closet and closes the door behind him. It’s dark in here but neither of us makes the move to switch on the lights.

“This is stupid,” I say.

“You asked for help.”

“This is stupid,” I repeat, “you don’t even want to be here.”

“And I am helping you.” He carefully cups my face in his hands.

“This is stupid,” I whisper.

I start to feel his warm breath on my face.

“You don’t have to-“ I start but can’t finish because his lips are on my lips. Soft.

Have I mentioned I’ve never kissed anyone before?

It’s strange. Awkward. Stupid. Soft. Wrong. I pull away.

“I- I- I’ve never…”

“Me neither.”

“Then, why?”

“Just let it happen,” and then he kisses me again.

Just let it happen. And I kiss him back.

Think I’ve slipped into my dream because I slowly wrap my arms over his shoulders, as he slips his around my waist. We pull back and kiss again but with less hesitancy.

Muscles that I didn’t realize were tense are starting to loosen up as he strokes my back, and I’m beginning to fall comfortable in his presence. I think he starts sensing it because he starts kissing me more passionately, and I too. The world losing existence and here we are.

It’s his skin on my lips, his breath on my neck, his shoulder blades beneath my fingers. Blood racing through my system, nerves blazing under his touch. This is forever and ever without the pain.

Before I know it, we’re on the ground. His back against the wall and legs straight out, while my knees are cradling his hips as I’m sitting on his lap. We don’t know how long we’ve been making out.

“Wait, wait,” he pants breathlessly.

“What?” I pull back.

“I can’t feel my legs.”

I don’t know what it is, but I start giggling uncontrollably. He starts chuckling in response and gently pushes me off him as he readjusts his legs. I don’t get back up from the floor as I can’t stop laughing. He shuffles over and wraps his arms around me from behind, little spooning me.

“Glad to hear you laughing now. How do you feel?”

“If you’re asking if I’m feeling less suicidal? The answer is definitely.”


I laugh a little longer and then find my breath. We don’t move from this position, just lying down on the ground for a while.

“What are you thinking about?” He asks.

“Nothing. Just radio silence in my head. I like that.”

We don’t say anything more for a while.

Then he breaks the silence again “I’ve thought about us being friends before too. A long time ago.”

“Really?” I ask.

“Yeah. But I didn’t say anything because you gave off this ‘do not disturb’ vibe and thought against it.”


“I didn’t know.”

“Didn’t know what?”

“Didn’t know… that it was because of your…”

“…mental illness,” I complete.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“I know.”

“You don’t deserve this.”

“I know,” I whisper.


I started this in the hopes of doing good work for the people I cared about. To have something to show for them, their struggles and pain. A ripple, starting a wave of change.

I pushed so hard for it. I ran every-possible-where and searched until I was pouring with sweat and tears.

So close to the finish-line, my mind is frayed but I know that I’m so close to where I was hoping to reach.

I hope it makes a difference, I hope to cause a difference, I hope it comes to good use. And I worked to make those hopes tactile and won’t quit until they shake the sea.