When I cannot find the words I admire his face instead. I trace every line, every strand of hair, the depth of those shimmering eyes and I try to mentally will him to cry. Sometimes I think he isn’t human, he seems so jaded by life, it makes me wonder if his mind thinks of the things he has been programmed to think, subconsciously he thinks them, repeats them, never believing them and always trying to convince himself that he doesn’t really think them. Every inch of him is so beautiful and all I really want is to watch him bleed, whether it be his heart onto paper or his pain into tears that roll down his cheeks, I want to witness his weakness. I want to see that he bleeds red just like me. I wouldn’t take advantage of his vulnerability, as much as I would want to. I just want to see him fall apart, just one time. I want to see that he is real and not something that I have dreamt up. I want to wipe away his tears and feel their weight between my fingertips. I want to see if they sparkle as brightly as the rest of what I love about him does. I want to see if his blood will stain me as deeply as the rest of him has.

The Artist


Looking at some older photos of him and once again becoming lost in his beauty. He destroys my soul while calling it love and I love every minute of it. His beauty is different. His is a beauty that I initially believed to be a mirage. When I think of him I tell myself that he proved me wrong by showing me how gentle he can be, how he just as much loves to watch the autumn leaves dancing in the golden sunset as I do. He demonstrates this by listening to the whispered conversations of the ocean’s waves, holding my hand while we dig our toes in the sand, the breeze ruffling that beautiful head of hair of his. He smells of cotton and detergent and natural things, not spice and whatever else is put in those sprays for men to attract a partner, a lover, a one-night stand. No, he smells pure. A smell that makes me feel at home. He makes an enormous effort to remember my favorite thing to do on those days when I cannot go on and he does this with me without judgment. He hums his favorite songs to me in a way that makes them sound like lullabies, even when they are the heavier bit that he listens to. He paints me a picture, his easel set up by the French doors that I don’t have, facing the sunlight, or the moonlight (which I much rather prefer), a glass of something strong and amber in one hand, a paintbrush between his teeth, a cup to rinse in his other paint-streaked hand. He paints me the worlds I dream of, the worlds I long to be a part of. He brings them to life for me through his colors, colors that only he can breathe life into the way he does. Beyond that, I’m not sure what he’s like, only that his heart is kind, he would rather die than hurt my heart and his colors are what light the way for me in my darkest of moments. I could be wrong about him. I usually am wrong about people. But this is how I’ll think of him, in those passing moments when I think of him.

When It’s Like This


When it’s like this, it’s almost like being reborn. I can’t help but think of the Phoenix, born out of the ashes. The depression is like this. I don’t know what started it, something in my paranoid mind, no doubt. A spark of something ignited a fire in me. It’s always the same- I’ve seen or heard something that didn’t sit well somewhere inside of me and it gnawed at me and gnawed at me. It’s snowballing. The anxiety blossomed into depression which is slowly dissolving into anger, red hot, boiling rage. I hate it when it’s like this. I hate feeling so out of control. I hate hating the things I usually love. I hate everything. I mostly hate feeling like this. He tells me I need to get some rest, that he’ll handle all of the errands on his own today, but he doesn’t understand that when it’s like this, there is no rest. My mind will keep spinning, my insides will grow more and more blackened by the second until I finally explode. He told me once that he would rather hear the craziness that bumps around in my brain because it’s better than wondering what I’m thinking but once I’ve told him what’s happening he gets frustrated and it makes me feel worse. This is why I’m a woman of few words. People say they want to know, but they really don’t. Not when it’s like this.



When the anxiety is like this, my teeth feel numb. I didn’t think your teeth had too much feeling but apparently, they do. My teeth have felt numb for the past two days. It’s a strange sensation. It feels like they’re tingling but it also feels like they’re not there. The words consume me, yet I cannot find the appropriate ones to write. They tumble in my brain and jumble together and on days like today when I’m filled with a red hot rage, everyone looks like an enemy to me. Everyone looks like someone who not only can, but wants, to hurt me. Especially those that I love. I ran into someone today that I used to know and it was awkward as he raised his eyebrows at me and forced a cheery “Hey.” His girlfriend was trailing much farther behind him as they browsed for a door. She looked unenthusiastic as she followed him from aisle to aisle before they finally exited the building, him at a quick pace and her still shuffling behind him. I saw them together in the store a few months ago and they were standing so close together, hands linked, eyes glowing with that new love. It made me a bit sad to see them this way today. But maybe he was in a hurry. His ex does work there still of course. Maybe he was afraid he would run into her and it would just be awkward. His ex has been promoted and will be leaving the store soon, which I’m thankful for. I never much liked her anyhow. I wondered if he was feeling a red hot rage like me. If he was anxious and restless with the urge to move around, break loose or maybe to destroy something beautiful the same as I was feeling. I didn’t ponder these things too long because she’s in his past, and he is in mine and there’s no point of reliving that mess. It was confusing enough the first time and my anxiety is too great for anymore confusion.

Beautiful Words


Sometimes it’s hard being the only one who always has the words, even when I cannot find them. It’s hard to sit in silence when the silence should be filled. I turn to my pages and fill them with words- words that have otherwise been ignored in my life, words that I cannot say out loud, words that I cannot empty my head of. I know you know what I mean. These words cannot be wasted on just anyone when they are so precious to us and so we wait for the right moment or maybe the moment when we cannot think of these words anymore and then we let them spill forward. But not in a reckless, haphazard way. No we find a beautiful way to say the most ugly things because sometimes making those ugly things beautiful any way we can is the only way we can endure them. We are birds of a feather. Most times you understand what I am trying to say and sometimes I understand what you meant and this is when we come together to remind ourselves that we are not alone.

Highway at Night


If you asked me why I write, I would ask you not to ask me that. You already know the answer. But if I must tell you, I am searching. And you already know what for. In a world that moves too fast, that moves too slowly, that never seems to move in a way that makes sense to me, I am searching.

The answer lies by the oceanside, of course. It floats around me in the salty, sea air. It ebbs and flows towards and away from me on the crest of each frothy, cerulean wave. When I’m ready to find the answers, the ocean is where I’ll be. The ocean is where I’ll be, if you’re ever looking to find me.

I write because too often my lips trip and stumble over words that are too inadequate for the tumbling thoughts in my mind. I write because there aren’t many souls in my life who would understand what I meant, and also what I didn’t. I write because sometimes the words build up on my clumsy tongue and I begin to feel as though I may scream. I write to find release.

If you ask me why I write, I would tell you it’s because I love you. I love so many You’s. So many like You. So many who aren’t like You. I want to share with you the things I cannot share with those I hold so close to me. You could say I hold you closer. I write to not feel so alone even though I don’t too much mind being lonely.

I write because the night hours stretch ahead of me like a damned, black highway, leading to something that leaves me feeling unsure, a highway that leads nowhere. I write to fill the silence. I write to quiet the noise. I write to fill the emptiness. I write when I need to be alone.

I write because I am searching. Like so many others like me, I write to find what I am missing. I already know what it is I am looking for. I just don’t know when I’ll find it.

The Light


What was I trying to say just then? The words didn’t make any sense once they touched the page. My thoughts, a whirlwind of butterflies, dancing in an autumn breeze- beautiful but still I cannot grasp them. I was trying to tell you about the emptiness, but now I’m emptied of words, there’s none left to use. I’ve lost my momentum. I’m not like the rest of them you know, who take and take and take. I want to give you all of me and show you what it’s like. It has to be you because there’s a weakness in you that I can fill with the dimming light in me. Let me fill you with my darkness and I’ll drink from yours in return. It has to be You because you understand, even when you don’t. We live these mediocre lives, always searching for the greatness inside, telling ourselves we don’t need another soul. But I need you and you need me and it’s a pity it wasn’t written in the stars for us because together, we could’ve created something magical.

Make Believe


Memories of playing dress-up and tea party, just a young thing in a world of wonderment, an imagination without boundaries, escaping reality at every chance. But no, that’s not how life was. I was young once, and I had a vivid imagination, but nothing ever as innocent as princess tea parties and fairy godmothers. I dreamt of being beautiful, of belonging to a family that I resembled instead of the one that I wasn’t born into. A mother with the same tawny shaded skin as me, the same full lips and thick, dark, wavy hair.

I lived inside of fictional worlds, scrawling my soul onto pages as early as I can remember. Spiral notebook after notebook, stacked in neat piles until I reached the age where I needed something more, sturdy, fancy books whose pages I tore with my pens, hiding them on the top of closet shelves and under mattresses, underneath wardrobe dressers, wherever I could find some privacy.

The feeling of exposure when my privately written words were read by eyes they weren’t meant for. My soul being ridiculed and dreams being degraded and destroyed. Yet still I wrote. I never gave it up. Writing is what I do. It’s all I have.

I never dreamt of love, it was always a fairytale, a fable, fiction that was beyond my comprehension. I couldn’t even write a love story if my life depended on it. What is love? A mythical creature, the things nightmares are made of.

As an adult I continued to try to play pretend. I tried to be a wife and mother like those I read of so often in my beloved novels. One that is domestic and caring and dutiful and beautiful and all it got me was pain and pain and more pain. A madness so deep and dark that I prayed for it to end but it never did.

I pretended to be okay, I pretended to be alive. I pretended that I wasn’t pretending. I made myself into who I thought I was supposed to be, so many different sides of me, it was what I imagine being schitzophrenic must be like. While I was trying to find myself, it seems that I lost myself. And after I was done pretending, after I had run out of imaginary plotlines, after I had hit rock bottom, a brick wall, what I thought was the end, only then did I begin to live.



Did I say too much? Did my vulnerability and temporary moment of madness make you uncomfortable? I tried to hold it in, but it had to be let loose or I would’ve begun to slowly crumble like a cliffside weathered away by the ocean waters I love so much. I almost regretted letting you see that side of me, but it is who I am.

I lay in bed for so long, wishing for sleep to overcome me, for me to forget about the chaos that was bubbling inside, slowly taking over every part of me. And eventually, it did. After my tears had dried up and my heart calmed a bit, I was drug into the peaceful depths of sleep where the nightmares didn’t come and for that, I was thankful.

But then this morning I was worried. Maybe I shouldn’t have spoken those words. Maybe I should’ve tried harder to find a way out of that dark place. Sometimes it’s not that easy. Sometimes it feels like drowning. Like drowning while sailing through the air, waiting to hit rock bottom.

I tried to occupy my mind with videos and words and sleep. I tried to will myself to be at peace. And then I worried that I said too much. Did I say too much?

But those words were the most real. They were my truth. They were painful and dark but beautiful in their own way because they were my truth.




When it gets like this it frightens me how quickly the illness takes over, but really, can I even call it an “illness”? True, there’s a pill I can take to help diminish this sickness which I’ve only just swallowed down before I started writing this, but the illness, I don’t think I will ever fully recover from it. My teeth feel numb and the underside of my tongue tingles which has always been a warning sign of an oncoming episode. I keep thinking of those people in that waiting room, the one I always feel so out of place in, the people that I can’t decide whether or not I’m not as sick as because I cannot express my insanity as well as they do or that I’m sicker than for the same reason. I need to be held right now and told that I’m loved and safe but if this were to actually happen I wouldn’t believe the words anyhow. There’s a black sadness building inside of me that I know will turn into rage tomorrow and I’ll hate nearly everything that I know I truly love. My bed will be my sanctuary and my mind will be my prison and I’ll spend the next few weeks replaying every single moment between the last time and this time, trying to remember the offense I committed to deserve such a cruel punishment.