uhgettin real tired of people claiming to be in the mental hospital but theyre somehow actively onlinei know people who have legit been there and they barely let you contact anyone except your family andmaybe spouse idk so you can focus on recovering. seriously even pencils are taken away from you theyaren't going to let you go on dA to whine about it sorry but that's unrealistici just find it kinda aggrivating when people play "mentally ill" because its personally offensive to me sincei have people i love very dearly who suffer from mental illnessit's not fun or a pity party
MelancholiaI crawled beneath the skin,nails taking crescent moonsto labored arteries,where life birthed.I gave rash to skin, rippling in marrow,bulging flesh and pore…all to break free.I laid beneath scarlet musclesick with Loneliness: a bittersweetdisease of rusting hearts.I let it throb, pound—ache,sulking within the cradle of spine,rocking joints to solemn sleep…and how easily resignationwas acquired,for they were weary,used to hunching to sorrowsresoluteand chronic.
forgetting how to sleeptake two.a week past the end of the world,and there’s something therapeuticabout not caring. I must’vereally messed up in another life. Iwake up shaking and forget to sleepshaking and hold your hand, shaking,remembering the moment I becamepoison. I feel crazier than ever; cementhead’sgood and gone with his plastic wristsand missing soul. the boy who entertainshis unfriendliest nightmares couldn’tmuster up enough innocenceto make it right. (today, he writesa letter; dear Sophia, he tells meit doesn’t get better. I’mlocked up for a crime Ididn’t commit. you did it,Sophia. you built mewrong.) but you know me,I fell in love with a problem Icouldn’t fix, a boy blindedwho’s never seen the light.He was a stormy violet but Iam cyan graying with age--I spent most of my life dying,and the rest of it wishing Iwas someone else. they tell usonly god will see your ugly;and the girl who swallowedrazorblades can&