Days 14-19: PTSD

I originally published this on my tumblr first, but I’d figure I’d drop it here too.

the first step is always acceptance and I accepted that these terrible things happen rather they be random acts of violence or forces beyond my control but I still have these flashbacks and my mind makes up these scenarios and I really

I don’t know I just end crying when the night visits me, always without fail and unless I’m reading or talking to someone or watching something I can’t feel at ease, ever and there’s only so much you can write about because your vocabulary has a finish line and you’ve crossed it, you’ve crossed it so many times, these words mean absolutely nothing, they’re redundant, probably get annoying because the rhythm gets repetitive and you’ve heard it all already

it gets to the point where these thoughts become broken records, they loop, playing over and over and over and over

The needle is too fucking heavy and I literally can’t make it stop, I’ve tried, I really have, you can’t say I haven’t

And that’s probably why I can’t even sleep, you know


Because it happens


Breaks out


Interrupts over

Doesn’t matter how much cute shit I read or watch over and over

I’m not over it

Over and over and over again


13 of 365: Reference

I’d marry the night if it didn’t mean swimming in total darkness with you.

My light snuffed out when you breathed me in, and I thought, so this is love–cold, dark, and gruesome, like in the movies.

I followed you into the dark but I lost you there; when the sharks pulled my arm you never looked back.

My daddy was a sailor, I don’t think I ever told you that, so he made me learn how to swim good, above water and away from sharpened teeth and obsidian eyes.

I had wings when I learned how to ignite my own flame, and then I saw you–

hunched over, lost, mouth rabid; I knew you were dangerous because you didn’t know what you wanted

But I never said that, I said, Jesus Christ, that’s a pretty face. I touched the skin like I touch fine China, softly, delicately with the sole intention of admiring the art.

There was a crack in your design, a flaw, but I showed you my scar, the bites on my arm–“Baby, we all gotta go sometime.”

You were afraid, and I didn’t understand because we were there already–you took my hand, my whole life too.

Why’d you let the muck in this fish bowl confuse you?

Songs Used:

“Marry the Night” by Lady Gaga

“So This is Love” by Ilene Woods

“I Will Follow You Into the Dark” by Death Cab For Cutie

“My Daddy Was a Sailor” by Marina and the Diamonds

“Swim Good” by Frank Ocean

“Seraphim” by For Today

“Who’s Gonna Ride Your Wild Horses” by U2

“Jesus Christ” by Brand New

“The Great Gig in the Sky” by Pink Floyd

“Can’t Help Falling in Love” by Elvis Presley

“Wish You Were Here” by Pink Floyd

12 of 365: Why

Lately people have been shooting my ears with questions like “Why do you like to write?”, and I’ve been caught off-guard every time, not really having a reason to like what I do or even know why I do it. I can counter with “Why does anyone do anything?”, but my own answer leaves me feeling unfulfilled and empty.

Why do I do something that I like and try so hard, when I probably won’t ever make it anywhere? Why do I take time out of my life and strain my eyesight, wrack my brain for words to form sentences I haven’t seen yet. How many words do we have in our vocabulary to make a new sentence? How do I know that what I’m saying doesn’t already exist?

I don’t know. Those are way too many questions.

But I–I don’t know why I like writing, per say. I like how words make emotions and experiences eternal. I like how personal they are, written down and kept forever. I like how everyone reads it in their own voice, adding their own meaning and sighing because they find bits and pieces of themselves in these words.

I like making things? I like creation, I should say. I like coming up with worlds and people and societies, and I like watching them grow or destroy.

I don’t know, I like it because I like other things so–it’s just my second nature? An affinity I have? A talent I’ve developed over time?

I don’t know. Stop asking me why I do things.

10 of 365: Twenties

One of the first things you’re going to do is buy yourself a good old-fashioned piggy bank, the kind that you can’t open without a hammer because you actually want to save up for that trip next summer.

The next thing is update your wardrobe, pass the graphic tees and patterned jeans over to your grandparents for them to hand down, wondering what possessed you to ever think those were cool enough to wear out in public.

You start looking for jobs, because on top of saving up for travel, you want to be able to afford some new clothes.

Your taste in music doesn’t really change, but you seek out other things to listen to, just because it shouldn’t try out things you aren’t use to.

You treat food the same way, and build a tolerance for spicy food and discover that you’re, unfortunately, lactose intolerant. You eat stuff you shouldn’t eat anyway, because it tastes good and who are you to not enjoy things?

There are some people you stop talking to. It doesn’t make you sad, because you start talking to other people and learn even more about yourself, things you wouldn’t have ever known if you stuck yourself with people who stopped growing.

You keep some others though, because you can’t decide if what’s keeping you together is loyalty or mutual adoration, but you don’t rush the revelation, just try to enjoy the little time you spend together.

Life is too short to be half-assed about anything anymore.

You start getting along with your parents and siblings. You tell them you love them as often as you remember to, and take your siblings out to the movies to see the only film the could ever seem to talk about.

You try out a new hobby, and grow a plant by your window.

You read the plant a different chapter from that new book you bought every day.

You realize that life is short, life is long, life is not enough for everything you want.

9 of 365: Interosculate

You hide your thumb in the space between your fingers, down the cheap wine in one go and let your body beat into the world your mind is escaping. Because your hand can still feel pudginess around your waistline you swallow another glass of wine, a shot of vodka, and half a glass of Jack Daniels before all of the weight goes to your head and your body becomes light, the way you’ve always wanted it. You can’t keep a single thought going, can’t string together any doubt because your mind is gone and your body is flying, hips swinging, arms wrapped around the neck of a warm stranger.

He turns you around, and you let him. He grinds into you, and it goes straight to your clit. You push back because you enjoy a tease, and he holds on tighter, like letting go meant his last breath.

One minute you’re rutting against a stranger on the dance floor, the next, he’s fucking you in the bathroom, nails digging into your hips, and you want it, you want it, you want it so bad, you want it harder, God, just fuck me like you mean it–

He does. You feel the sparks firing at the tips of your toes, the turning of your stomach, and the white noise that finds you at the peak of an orgasm. He tenses behind you, rides it out and there you both are, gasping together, his hands planted on either side of the stall so he doesn’t collapse over you.

His hands slide over your skin, and your thoughts are lazy, your body excited, but you’re becoming aware of how intoxicated you aren’t. His fingers are over your stretch marks, caressing your rolls. He pulls out just then, turns you over and kisses you slow, and you think–everyone deserves to be kissed like this.

“I’m–I’m Josh,” he says breathlessly, eyes falling to your lips and glancing back. They’re a deep brown, intense and beautiful.

You give him your name, and he smiles, wrapping his arm around your waist. This is different, you think. But it isn’t bad.

“I know we just–met, and all, but. I can buy you something to eat, maybe? I mean we just,” he laughs, his head indicating what they’d just done, “You know. But–”

“We can eat,” you say, because why the fuck not.

He smiles, helps you get dressed again. This is definitely different, and it was good. It was so good.

7 of 365: Disappointment

For the amount of time you’ve spent telling her you wished you had your arms around her, you could have at least tried to remember the limbs you had to hug her with.

For the amount of time you’ve spent telling her how beautiful she is, you could have kissed her back at least once out of the three times her lips pressed against yours’.

I stopped the scene, called cut because this wasn’t the way it was written.

But sometimes life is disappointing and love is not what it should be.

I poured the phone back into my pocket, and smiled at her while you tried to figure out how to hold her hand.

“We can try again later,” I told her.

We didn’t.