All of a sudden,
AND YET, THERE WAS NOWHERE TO GO | Lora Mathis
inside of me
before I was
R.I.P. The 2976 American people that lost their lives on 9/11 and R.I.P. the 48,644 Afghan and 1,690,903 Iraqi and 35000 Pakistani people that paid the ultimate price for a crime they did not commit
this is the only september 11th post I’m reblogging
Sad girl takes a walk to clear her head and never comes back. Sad girl evaporates. Sad girl nicks herself on a needle and discovers she is full of smoke. Sad girl’s epitaph reads, “Died in bedroom after forgetting to leave.” Sad girl choking on the lump in her throat. Sad girl not being able to Heimlich her words away. Sad girl still. Sad girl stolen. Sad girl staring off into space mid-sentence. Sad girl having to remind herself to breathe. Sad girl not so sad anymore. Sad girl just kidding when she said that. Sad girl as the punchline. Sad girl unsure of the joke. Sad girl talking about her almost “goodbye”s and going deaf at her mother’s sigh. Sad girl just selfish. Sad girl just young. Sad girl burden. Sad girl not easy to care for. Sad girl not wanting to feel like this anymore. Sad girl grow up. Sad girl shut up. Sad girl not enough. Sad girl falling into difficult love because it’s all she’s known with herself. Sad girl turning over and hoping her shaking doesn’t wake them. Sad girl staying even when it gets really bad. Sad girl toying with the idea. Sad girl disappointed that nothing happened. Sad girl imagining getting into a car crash. Sad girl not looking both ways before she crosses the street. Sad girl just a statistic. Sad girl just a smokescreen. Sad girl so sick of saying “I’m fine.” Sad girl okay. Sad girl smiling. Sad girl making herself laugh. Sad girl more than her sadness. Sad girl no longer ashamed of her emotions. Sad girl not asking for your pity. Sad girl only needing a phone call. A text message. A hand to hold. A reminder. A “I’m still here. I’ll come in. If you let me. If you let me.”
Sad Girl | Lora Mathis (via lora-mathis
This is a poem about September
Abbie Nielsen, Your Soul is Stuck In A Jar
and the heaviness
inside your lungs.
This is me attempting to be
This is me asking you questions
that end in bullets
instead of apologies.
This is me crying too hard
and flooding the fucking basement.
This is me asking you
if you have any idea
the way my bones shake
on the nights when you cannot take it
and your hands,
your hands, your hands,
they get angry at your mind.
This is me wanting to grow gardens for you from my throat
but spitting vinegar instead.
This is me asking you to
let me help you.
This is me holding my hand out to your
knowing full well that you are scared
and asking you to open your eyes.