We write to replace the holes in our chest, the pain of our very existence, to document what could have been.

How to Fall In Love With The Concept of Forgetting
I'm not crazy, I'm learning.
I was diagnosed with obsessive compulsive disorder, bipolar, borderline personality disorder, anxiety, depression and ADHD from a very young age.
"How come you're home for the weekend" people may ask
Because the silhouette in my head have turned into ghosts which haunt every sin in my existence.
Sorry, mom, I couldn’t finish college. I know you paid all that money for me to be a big success story, as the kid who didn’t fuck up, but I am the fuck up and
Maybe it's time to stop defining and start accepting because
You live for labels because you don't know how else to define who you are. Because you were never loved. Because you've never felt.
Suddenly my bones are piercing through my veins
And my lungs are slightly bruised with intoxication from the substances abused in the weekends prior.
I wasn't lying when I told you.
Loving me is to look into a broken mirror, not because it's cliche but because it's fun to look at but no one knows how to fix it.
I remember looking into your eyes and feeling fixed. and feeling like i wanted to exist. and knowing that in 21 hours everything we had would be taken from me, why did I buy that goddamn boat ticket? Why did I spend those 48 hours with you when I knew it was liminal; When I was already so afraid, so fragile. My heart has been on my sleeve for the past year and there's a crippling sensation I feel when I realise that it's all holes. Holes I cannot fill with temporary voids like sex, like drugs, like love. Like you. I never wanted love I wanted you.
And now the weeks have turned to months and were bordering the years and
I'm not crazy, I'm an artist. But someone once told me thaT mental illness and artistry share the same gene
And
We could take the time to define and dissect everything that I am, and come up with excuses for that, or we could Actually be productive and accept the fact that this is how I love live and learn, and How I behave is because I am who I am and nothing is going to change that. "Definitions, like water, are fluid." People can't be defined. Explained, yes, but only to a certain degree is that Valid.
And what else is. Valid is that I loved you I loved you and you let me die like gravity was a concept that didn't apply
Suddenly my bones are etched into the cracks in the sidewalk that you and your friends drunkenly skip over like the preface in an old, school book and my memory is exploited from the scars on my arms
I haven't been well. I know you are but I can't stop thinking of everything we shared and I started taking my medicine
I've stopped looking for a way to open every vein
I started talking to Roseanne
And forgot about high school
And stopped drinking once and for all
but nothing can cure an anxious mind
not even the pills, not even the methods of coping you learn in the hospital
not books, not exercise, not through talking, not art, not singing, not laughing, not by defining because none of that is relevant without you holding my hand
without you nurturing my wrists
without you stealing your parents liquor for us to drink on the beach
without you telling me you meant every word you said
not knowing that you were just drunk, that i was the slut, that I was this crazy suicidal thought that kept popping into your head for minutes until you were through with me.
and why am i still hurting? why am i still defining this pain because this pain doesn’t have a creator. it doesn’t have a name this pain is growing up. this pain is moving on. this pain is learning how to love again when half of you is long, long, gone
and i wasn’t lying when i told you. i actually meant every word.
and
I’m not crazy, I’m learning how to love again, without you.