Moona-257 - Things Ive Lost On The Way Here

it’s a sweet little fantasy. the way life runs it’s fingers through my hair and tells me that good things come in threes. the way she tells me cooking is a form of love, that sunday mornings spent in bed is time well spent. that food from my home is the best I can get, all those spices and sweets and freshly baked delights. she tells me that I’ve been working so hard. that this obsession for success is a form of self destruction.

and honestly, I know it is. I know that I destroy myself for a system that could replace me as soon as I falter. but how. how do I find the balance between legacy and enjoyment. how do I hold the little bird between my hands without breaking her wing.

so I wake up early (even on sunday mornings) and force myself to be productive. I order takeout and remind myself to call my mother because I miss the taste of home. I realise the language of my homeland has faded on my tongue. and that I’ve spent so much time outside of the sun that my gold skin has lost its shine.

complacency has made me lose myself.

turning lonely into angry and angry into occupied was a coping mechanism for so long for me. I mean, what else was I supposed to do with all this empty space inside me, hollowed from the inside out by my own mind? I tried to lobotomise myself, tried to extract all the bad like a field doctor without supplies on the battlefield: improvising, desperate, bloody- willing to do anything to just make it stop.

What is the word for a building that is on fire and that building is ruined and gone and everyone else can feel the effects of the smoke and the heat and that building is not a building but a person and that person is the i in my poetry, except it’s my real body that aches. The depression was physical just as much as it was mental.

All that destruction, pain, all the hollowness my illness brought. The “I can’t sleep but I’m so fucking tired”, “I can’t come into school today because the world scares me and I haven’t showered in weeks” and “I’m so sad and so numb” and “im sorry I have to cancel on you but I just can’t face the day”. I felt like I hurt people more than I hurt myself.

It’s hard to forget that part of my life, sometimes it feels like all the darkness never left. It still creeps on me, on days where I’m too tired or haven’t eaten. And I still write about it in the present tense. It’s still here. still here.

“but what if i’m faking it?”

traumatic memories, especially traumatic memories from when you were a child, are notoriously difficult to access in their entirety. there are a lot of reasons for this- dissociation, injury, and memory deteriorating over time to name a few- and this can present a challenging question to survivors: how do i know i’m not lying?

people who are faking trauma or mental illness in general know they’re faking it. if you didn’t wake up one day and plan out what a fake traumatic memory you were going to have, and all the triggers you wanted to have, then you’re not faking. 

processing trauma memories is difficult and frightening and confusing, but you are not a liar or a faker.

he sighs and whispers that he loves me.

every single wave in the river stopped to watch me blush and crashed again when he leaned in to kiss me. rippled once his lips met mine.

the deep blue reflects onto the sky, the mirror of my soul. I’m ready to drown in this moment. drown in him. our love washes over our names written in the sand

how you move me like the moon moves the waves. how you leave me breathless, like I’ve swam too far from the surface, lost in the blue of your eyes. how the riverbed of my heart crumbles when you touch me.

my love, there’s never enough time is there? I always say to myself after I’ve left you that I wish I had kissed you harder, wish I had hugged you tighter, wish I could’ve stayed a little while longer. the clocks are just never on our side, are they?

please, leave your phone in my bag and come visit me tomorrow to get it. please, call me when I get home to check I’m okay. please, spend your evenings at mine, curled up on the couch like you belong here, next to my notebooks and coffee mugs and paintings. It seems that I don’t quite know how to midnight without you.

when I turn to leave you after I’ve kissed your cheek goodbye, every single time I wish I could run back to you and say “oh, 5 more minutes won’t hurt”. every single time, I turn to look at you and find you still waiting where I left you, smiling, saying that you love me. you love me. you love me.

[Softly but with a lot of feeling] fuck

“….” by Emily Byrnes

types of people: film genres

film noir: wears a lot of black, has a constant air of mystery, effortlessly sultry, prefers to be alone, doesn’t even write down their secrets, probably the smartest person you know

screwball comedy: clumsy, quick-witted, has an infectious laugh, not afraid of being embarrassed, a lot of self-deprecating jokes, fit and energetic, some communication issues

science fiction: has a vast and varied collection of books, seeks out one-of-a-kind works of art, stays up late, keeps a lot of notes, openly talks about social issues, surprisingly existential

horror: wears jewel tones, constantly aching for october, reads gothic literature, prefers gloomy weather, not squeamish, intrigued by spooky stories, a night person

fantasy: decorates with fairy lights, puts flowers in their hair, has a sweet tooth, wears blankets as capes, spends way too much on scented candles, frequently watches disney movies, believes in magic/wishes it were real

musical: wears lots of different colors, sings in the shower, cheerful and friendly, twirls a lot, loves to be with people and play games, doesn’t mind being the center of attention, prefers being out of the house

period drama: a romantic soul, loves lace and satin, goes on picnics, enjoys the ritual of makeup and skincare, fascinated by old fashion trends, owns more than one book of poetry, goes antique shopping

when I tell you that you make me feel safe, it means something. I’m saying that you make me feel like a flower in a garden and I’ve spent my whole life feeling like a weed growing out of concrete. I’m saying that I love you so much that I’ll let you witness my wounds up close, under the harsh light. exposed, raw...but isn’t love being vulnerable in front of you and knowing that you still love me. you still love me. you still love me. wounds, flaws and all.

every time I talk about my own abuse for the sake of justice or awareness, all the words punch the back of my throat, a heavy thumping that spills from my mouth like the ugly mess it was. it’s still so painful and emptying and numbing all at the same time. It feels like I spoil the conversation, that I’m being uncouth or impolite. my story has no place anywhere.

a glass just empty, full of unoccupied space. a head tangled with words. I’m still confused about the concept of justice. and love. and forgiveness. it just feels unfair. just feels so wrong to make my own body’s safety into a movement or a form of activism. I don’t want to be loud or strong or empowered, I just want to be safe.

this world, full of its misogyny and hatred towards women, doesn’t help. The vilification of victims in the media makes me feel even smaller. the internalisation of misogyny, undermining my own pain because of my body’s “crimes” doesn’t help either.

my voice sometimes doesn’t feel like my own. my body never feels like it belongs to me. all this activism and anger and pain and I still can’t shake the feeling.

I worry about other girls. I worry about their voices being stolen not only by their abusers, or society but also by themselves.