@ Me Next Time Pt. 1

Headspace

I’m addicted to this headspace. I’m addicted to the self-pity, to the abysmal feeling that runs so deep into my stomach that it settles in another dimension. Where time can’t touch it.

I can’t get enough of the nervous laughter that comes in the face of self-loathing and I get high off others’ faces in response to my unapologetic self-deprecation.

I don’t hide behind smoke or mirrors because smoke can suffocate and mirrors can shatter.

I’m unsatisfied when I’m okay because I’m addicted to the effort it takes the outside world to notice a frustratingly passive cry for help when I’m not okay.

Because I know that I can’t be extraordinary and I know that I’ve got depressed down to a tee and I know only either or is worth wasting a second thought on

Worth questioning whether or not to bother with

Worth sending out an honest thought for.

I’m addicted to my self-destructive tendencies, to selling myself short, to pushing people away. No, more specifically, I’m addicted to the feeling of a thousand throbbing pounds of doubt sucked out of my ribcage when they insist on sticking around for the shit show.

I’m addicted to getting better, to taking two steps forward and one step back, two steps forward and three steps back

I’m addicted to opening up about and denying access to the same stigmatized conversation. If you ask me how I am, what don’t you want to me to say? What don’t you want to hear?

That I’m addicted to my neurodivergence? That I’m addicted to speaking freely? That I’m addicted to opening up a human shaped bottle of ripe, fermented “let's-be-honest-for-a-second”?

Because I’m torn, and maybe it’s harsh going down, but I’m existing between “I just can’t feel like this anymore” and “this is all the proof I have left that I can still feel.” And it’s not sad and sweet, getting home at the end of the day and wanting to slip into something more comfortable, like a coma.

It’s not beautiful.

The same way open sores and yellow teeth are not “beautiful.” The same way broken relationships and crippling debt are not “beautiful.” The same way bloody pricks and powdered noses are not “beautiful.”

The same way slit wrists. Are not. Beautiful.

But at least, it makes you feel. Right? At least I can tell I’m alive. At least I know I bleed, and at least I know I have a brain to fix and emotions to strangle and logic to ignore and eyes to cry sore and pillows to confide in and a room to lock the world out of…

I’m addicted to this head space, but at least, I know.

How are you?

I’m fine, how are you?:

At least for right now

right now I really just rather focus on the disturbingly optimistic vibe in your voice,

rather than focus on the disturbingly black holes inside my head.

If I told you otherwise

your pity would be apparent,

your sympathy would be physically inexpressible

and I’d be reminded of your painful neurotypicality.

Because I’d then have to reluctantly explain the,

Illogical,

ins and outs of my mental instability

and sound insane doing it.

How are you?

I’m hanging in there:

But the cliffs crumbling and the soils sliding away,

because sometimes it’s not

bad really

but other times...

other times I just feel like it’s all just there

wriggling and writhing

Burning

under the surface of my skin

but regardless...

Always

there’s that thought in my mind

pulsating behind my eyes

why can’t I just be who I wish I was meant to be

and why is the world so uninterested in me…?

At that point I’d have no choice but to shamefully attempt to explain the,

Undulating,

ins and outs of my mind

and sound insane doing it.

How are you?

.

.

.

.

I’m-

I’m not okay…

Tonight,

Hold me accountable for my actions,

because tonight

on this increasingly rare night,

I’ve been visited by that feeling again.

Mockingly, torturously,

under the surface.

The itch you just can’t scratch.

The itch you just can’t scratch,

not without a blade

or sometimes my strategically grown nails

or sometimes I try to freeze myself over

With the ice from the freezer..

or sometimes I don’t.

This time I won't.

So I’m sorry

but please

just sit with me

and hold me accountable for my actions

because I have

explained to you

the ins and outs of my mental instability

And

not once,

did you think

think I sounded insane doing it.

Clingy

Would you stop and look at me please?

Let me see your eyes

Let me see how they shine when they meet mine

Please would you stop and look at me?

This isn’t fair,

I can’t own your attention

you know that better than anyone

but inside me

the hunger for your adoration is an animal

ready to run right at your heart

because if it’s not beating for me

It shouldn’t be beating at all

and if I could count how many times I’ve told myself

“I don’t own your eyes”

“I don’t own your eyes”

“I don’t own your eyes”

I. Don’t. Own. Your. Eyes

I’d be lying.

The hours I could talk to you are infinity times itself

And when your attention is focused elsewhere it feels as though

you’ve replaced something else

with me, on it’s shelf

Where dust collects

And I can draw hearts with my finger

And write in equations with our initials

Except

I know it’s totally illogical

I know I’m nuts

But I also know that when you look at me

and speak to me

and listen to me

I want to spill my guts

to you

I want to tell you everything

the secrets in my stomach

the longing in my lungs

the obsession in my ovaries

I’ll even give you my beating

bleeding

heart

Wrap it in delicate tissue paper

And tie it off with a bow

made of my insecurities.

Maybe then

you’ll realize

that I’m here for your amusement

I’m all you need

Keep your eyes on mine

And your mind on me

Please

pleaseplease

pleaseplease

just me..

Or not...

I’m sorry...

I’m just a little clingy.