The flowers move and I don’t know why, but I can’t feel the wind touching my skin.
When the days are cloudy, I understand them, I relate, but I don’t find comfort.
All I do is think of how beautiful the sunless sky looks, and mostly, of how much of a
mess it’s gonna be when it starts raining and I have to catch the bus.

I get so anxious about stepping into the mud that I stop looking up to enjoy the light.
When it does rain, I don’t reach my hand out of the umbrella, I just run.

Some days the only thing that keeps me in the ground is gravity,
I’m out of the world, zoning out hundred percent of the time, unable to come back.
I hear people talking but I never think their words come in my direction,
so I just give them the ‘What?’ look when they call my name and I suddenly catch it.

I rest my eyes for a few seconds at my desk while waiting for a file to open,
instead of fully joining the conversation at the office.

It’s all like that.
I don’t want to speak to the lady sitting close to me at the doctor’s.
I know they want to get solace but I’m the worst place to try find it.

It’s lost, you know. The power I had when I was five is gone.

I can’t dream big enough not to care about how to get there.
Nor can I fall and wound my knee and stand up with no pain until I see the blood.
I can’t cure my mom’s headaches with just placing my hand on her forehead.
I can’t make my dad’s orange beverage taste good like I used to.

Always wonder when it got like that, when I stopped being a child
and started this bitter young adult journey and even worse,
why exactly did it have to be a bitter young adult journey.

I’m trying, I swear. I know it doesn’t look like it, but I’m trying.
I said I wanted to regain myself, and sometimes I doubt I’ll get to it,
but I’m trying.

I want to see the flowers bloom someday and feel like them, move with the wind,
stop running from the rain and worrying about the mud.

What does it take? I don’t know anymore.



The Sunday Blues hit me up as always.
They dance around me, those fucking monsters.
I ask for them to leave, oh, but it is so, so tempting to let them in.

I kick them away with cheerful tones,
but I can still hear the whisper, it’s not enough

“You’re not good enough, you’re not good enough, you’re not”.
I hear them.

I ask for them to leave, oh, but it is so, so tempting to let them in.

I believe them.
Those fucking monsters.


I never thought I’d make it to 2019.

The first time I was about to commit suicide was back in 2007. I was upset and tired, knife in hand. Ready. Then I heard a song and later claimed it saved my life.

From then and on, it’s been days and days thinking of it. Of being so close to it. Years of almost reaching for that cutter I have in a mug full of pens I never use. Months of forcing myself to say it’s going to be a better day every morning and coming back home to stare at the metal box where I keep all my meds, trying to decide if I should smash them all and mix them in water a la L’élégance du hérisson or just dry swallow them all.

I keep staring, as if time stopped for a moment. Am I deciding if it’s worth it? I might even be in doubt, but never in hopes for anything. I told myself a long time ago that I am way past salvation. That I am the one and only owner of the key of my healing. Too bad I am as well the one who locked me up.

For a second, I’m scared of ending up in Hell. Then I tell myself I’m going there to fucking reign. After all, I am my own executioner. I am a master of torture and psychological damage. Of self-sabotage. Of self-loathing. I will get there with my own demons.

I believe that whether it’s the cutter in the mug of unused pens or a mouthful of antipsychotics, I’m going down on my own. But who knows. I’ve successfully walked into traffic only to get to the other side unharmed.

Still, I wish for the rain to wash me away, for the wind to cast me out of life. And from time to time, for the moon to save me. But as I’ve said before, I am only getting closer to the sun and its flames.

I never thought I’d make it to 2019. I’ve been trying to die since the day I was born.

And I’m not lying.


Just end me so I don’t have to do it myself.
I need this to stop. This thing forever going on in my head.

The room’s spinning and even when I want to get out,
I’m still riding a high-speed merry go round,
I need help.

I asked for it and it doesn’t work,
because there’s just this part of me that doesn’t want it to work.

I just want this shit to stop.
But I don’t want to keep going.

Just, please.

I’m so tired.

So tired that I would like someone to shoot me,
randomly, when I’m walking down the street to the convenience store,
dead on the spot. That’s it. I am no more.

But I can’t handle thinking of the pain I would cause my family.
That’s the only reason I try.


Some dreams pull the trigger over and over again.
Nightmares press my buttons,
and I wake up with a buzz in my head that I can’t explain.

But every now and then, you’re there.

We walk as fast as we can,
almost running away from a monster we just beat down.
Leaning on each other, tired and bloody,
your weight falls on me because you’re so much taller
and suddenly I feel safe, safer than I’ve ever felt while awake.

It’s the relief in your eyes every time you find me,
and the soft fabric and the cold zipper of your jacket
when you pull me into your arms.

It’s my head on your shoulder and my hands on yours,
it’s my soul coming back to my body when I see you.
It’s your smile and the bright green of your eyes.

It’s that ethereal heart of yours that belongs to me,
even for just that moment.

It all makes me wish to step into your fiction
and not wake up ever again,
because I don’t long for you to be real;
this world doesn’t deserve you.

But I ask the heavens every day
for you to welcome me every time I close my eyes.

Because whether you’re my knight in shining armor,
or I fight by your side,
you’re home to me.


I start to see and feel the sunlight,
while begging for the wind to take the clouds away.

I am wary of the calm sometimes,
but I focus on the white noise and trust it’ll shake off my worries.

I swear some days are so hard,
but I want to keep feeling the sunlight.

I want to go back to the things that made me, me.
The good things, and the good me.

I want to find new things that will help me be me.
Good new things and a good new me.

I just want to open the windows when it’s sunny.