unwhole.

i always wake up with salt stained cheeks, 

and i’m never sure if it is from sleep, 

or because i don’t get up to wash my face after i let myself feel everything from the night before.

i never let you hear me. 

i mute myself for the periods in the night when i wake up and scream into my pillow and claw and tear at my frustrations because i don’t feel heard. 

but i guess it is partially my fault

because i never let you hear me.

i know i am loved

i know i am not alone…

but the validation in my own brain is never enough to truly convince me,

and i know how i feel —

and i am surrounded by those who care about me,

but still, i am alone.

i know i need to pick up the phone and reach further

reach out.

not just scrape the surface, but get my fingers red with blood and dig so much deeper.

i am so terrified of getting dirty.

when i pull up my entrails one by one, what will i find?

i need soap, i need to scrub myself clean

i want to be pure and happy, understood.

and everything leads back to you.

i hate my face. i want to rip away at my skin…

i’m some kind of monster that you have to walk on eggshells around

because if you make a sudden noise, or an unsolicited comment, you could awaken a beast.

and i’ll just trip over and fall into the abyss, or step on a town

and kill thousands.

but i’m not the real monster… am i?

no! 

it’s you, it all stems from you

and i am so angry and frustrated and exhausted by everything.

it has come to the point where

i don’t even know what i’m writing about anymore.

i can just as easily turn around and blame everything on mass murders in foreign countries,

ones that my monster did not commit.

there are so many layers, no matter how much i shed.

i keep crying.

i keep peeling.

i keep waiting to wake up one day and feel fine.

and i don’t.

and it’s your fault.

but then you reach out and you tell me to take care of myself,

and how can i?

i am hanging on by a thread.

you don’t get to come back with your needle and weave me back into this pattern.

to hear your voice sends me into a spiral.

to read a text makes me panic.

to come to the conclusion that you are the source of my monster,

of my trauma.

you are the reason i hate myself, and the world. 

you are the reason i punish myself

you are the reason i feel bad for putting myself first

you are the reason i tear at my hair,

and pull at my skin,

and scream at night into a pillow 

because i don’t feel heard.

because i am not whole.

• cofc
• healing
• poetry
• Trauma