seasonal depression in truth

 I want to say Happy Autumn Equinox & Blessed Mabon, but that's not where my head is right now. So, I guess you get this instead. Sorry..

things i didn't intend to write today

 just got the news/that my uncle died last night/and i don't know how to feel/i want to feel shocked/because the/circumstances/are/weird/i want to feel sad/but the relationship was/largely/nonexistent/i want to worry about my aunt/my only aunt left/on my mother's side/but we don't see/eye to eye to eye to eye/and i don't know/if i care/because i'm supposed to/because i remember her from/before/religion and trumpism/ate her brain like a starving zombie/i don't know/if i care/because the blood in my veins/and the roots of my tree/and the echoes of my maternal line/says that to be a good granddaughter/a good daughter/a good niece/a good woman/a good person/that i SHOULD care/but i have lived my life with the knowledge/that 'should'/is/a curse word/and i don't know i don't know i don't know/how i'm supposed to FEEL/because the depression makes me numb/and the anxiety says/that it/doesn't/and/DOES/matter/and i don't know which voice/to/LISTEN/to

–and i don't think this is a poem, but i don't know wtf it *is*

well, if you really wanna know...

I kinda feel like this needed a content warning, but I can't exactly figure out for what, so you get a cover photo of a foggy field behind one of my favorite cemeteries instead.  You're welcome?  

Anyway.  

At some point this year, a switch flipped in my brain, and I sort of lost the ability to answer the question "How are you really feeling?" with any degree of subterfuge.  Granted, the answer is different day by day (sometimes minute by minute).

•non-lucid dream•

 •non-lucid dream•

i need to stop dreaming about you
i don't know if this is a poem or a spell
but i'm setting my intentions regardless
i'll throw some herbs and stones at it
covering my bases, all for good measure?
i need a solution, a resolution,
i need to be f i n i s h e d 
i keep cauterizing these broken connections
but they just won't stop bleeding
and the constant irritation of anticipation,
this ever-present sense of waiting
it's more tension than i can house
a little more stress to top up the tank
and whoops, here we are, overflowing again
can i set fire to this spreading puddle?
the smell is wrong, but it's pink like gasoline
is that enough? it ought to be enough
i need to stop dreaming about you
and i'm telling you, i'm telling the Universe
that this, here, is my breaking point
i can't afford to cover your rent on my emotions
the fees are too much, and it's way past time
for you, to get the fuck out of my head

dead roses

 

•affinity•

 

The poet is aware that "awkwardest" is not a word.  She mostly does not care.  She is also aware that only being able to refer to herself as a poet while speaking in the semi-loathed third person is something of An Issue.  (I'm working on it.  .....okay I'm actually not, but it's on the Self-Improvement list, I swear).

I think I make my therapist nervous...

 ...and that isn't helping with my anxiety.

okay, fucking ow

This piece just exploded out of me, and real talk?  I hate it.  I do not like it.  I didn't want to write it.  I didn't want to post it.  I am not happy that it exists.  But I made a promise to myself in this last year, that I was gonna be completely honest about my mental health struggles in my writing.  So, here it is.