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Potato

This is my personal blog. A place where I can share my creations and stories with you. Some of the

02/04/2021

"Doubtful conversations. "
(Content Warning: the following involves the mentions of su***de, death, self-harm, abuse, and mental illness. Viewer's discretion is advised.)

We're all just one step away from chaos.
One long swift against a blade and you're gone.
The cold breeze hissing past your ears as you take in the view from halfway down.
This world is just suffocating,
I can't breathe.
I try to shuffle in my seat, but all I could think of is the long awaited sleep with no wake.
No more tomorrow, just today.
I want to hurt myself, they say "Nay!"
"it's not worth it!", "You can get through it!"
Your intentions are good, but all I hear are lies.
Why would you give me this hope?
As if there's a future waiting ahead of me?
All I see are more expectations from the people whose faces I'm not able to see.
The blackness of this tomorrow scares me to the bone.
Worry, troublesome, worthless little girl,
You'll never make it out alive.
You won't survive this place, without us, you'll die.
"Can't I just rest for one day?"
What rest? Do you honestly think you're deserving of that?
You can't rest if you aren't working.
You say that I'm a blessing,
Ha! What kind of bu****it is this?!
Wishing I would go die, then be angry at the fact that I really wanna die?!
Turn the tables and make me the bad guy!
"You never learn!", "You always have to rely on me!"
You click your tongue at the slightest disapproval,
I'm sorry!
I'll laugh for you instead!
I'll make my crippling anxiety and depression something more jolly!
Something you can joke about in front of me
While you continue on slowly ruining my sanity.
Keep feeding me lines of lies,
Pull me by the strings you tied
From the beginning of my life, from the moment I first cried
You made into a slave.
A prisoner slowly losing their minds.
I'm indecisive, I have no right to choose,
Because if I choose, I know I'll always choose what isn't normal.
I'll be that black sheep who doesn't think normal
For you, I became that person who will never be normal!
Tears stinging my eyes as my chest grows tighter.
It hurts, I keep saying it,
But you'll never know! It won't matter!
A call for comfort, a cry for help.
In a split second, I'll smile for you,
Pretending nothing was there.
It's all too much,
I'm getting tired of this.
I want to breathe. I can't breathe.
Death is whispering all around me.
I want to die.
Can't you just let me perish?
Either way, it's all my fault.
It's not my fault...
Is it... My fault?

© Potato, 2021.

09/02/2021

"One in the morning"
(Content warning: Strong Language)

It's toxic.

Oh, good, it's fu***ng toxic.

Am I the only who's thinking of this? Or is everyone else thinking about it too but chose to ignore it and push it aside as if it were a trigger to a traumatic experience? I shouldn't be the only who's thinking of this, right?

Who else is conscious of having an attack? Not just a any attack, I mean a literal attack. The feeling of a knife stabbing through your own chest and in the hands of the wielder, she looks at you like a fu***ng waste of space. This isn't just me, right? There has to be someone who thinks the same way.

They say anxiety is like tripping over in a dream, but that dream continues on loop. It never ends. The stream of tears flowing down her cheeks are warm and fuzzy, but it doesn't feel right. It doesn't seem to fit. Eyes are red and puffy, swollen like a bee's kiss on the cheek. Her nose is off and running, strings of panic dripping from the tip of her nostrils. Breaths only came out as gasps and wheezes, constantly rubbing her eyes with the soft fur of her mother's jacket. There was no one there. Why?

I can't be the only who's done this. Hanging up in the middle of what seemed to be a drunk call. However, it wasn't drunk. God knows what that call was, but it hit you. It hit you right where you were vulnerable - right where you least expected it to hit you - kicking you up from bed as the waterworks began to do wonders.

Thoughts racing. Always racing. Always looking for the need to drift in high speed like it's trapped in their solitude, chasing the key to her escape but it keeps floating away. Like a hamster on a treadmill, it's so stupid, you keep reaching to bite your reward and yet you're never close to deserving it. So she keeps running to catch it, so close yet she never got it. Not even once.

I panicked. The thought was too much to process. There were questions that were left unanswered and who knows what's gonna happen in the future. Should I keep running?

Her first instincts were to run to someone. Someone who was close - her sister - but the sister was busy. She didn't want to intrude, the weight on her chest was growing heavier by the second. The tears had stop, but her lungs stopped working. Curled in a tight ball beside her sister, she laid quiet. As quiet as breathing raggedly and thinking of every possible scenario that could kill you.

For a good thirty minutes the event lasted. I didn't feel anything. I wasn't safe. I'm in my own house, and I don't feel safe. I'm tired, but I can't sleep. My eyes are drooping, visibly tempting me to go back to my hell office that served as a prison of my own kind. Am I the only one who thought of this?

I hope I'm not the only one.

© Potato, 2020.

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