…would you feel this way if you hadn’t been drinking?

I was asking this to myself

And they say the heart is a physical organ? but

it seems to pump discontent through the parts you’re surprised you have left

Are you well?

I was asking this to myself

I’m not unwell, just ill at ease by the voices that threaten me

and im sitting backed up against the mattress,

and the wall-legs crossed, arms holding my stomach; shielding them off as they try to rip at my dress

I have a note clutched in my hand the words soak through me

leaking ink on my veins

Stay still, you have what it is that

drives away those demons

Its all in your will

The thing that drives the demons away

The thing that stays

Is your will

[sometimes] I try to crawl out of my own skin

trying to find something

to hold onto

something that isn’t distorted by my thoughts

grey washed by my eyes

[sometimes] I wish I had a hand to hold onto

Instead of a butcher knife

and I just want to crawl out of my skin

…and I tried. I tried. It’s just carved to bits

im lead eye lidded; leaning over the insides of my
i dont even know anymore
the constant knot in my stomach;the nausea that
empties its toxins through me
isnt it surprising that, they speak to you like you
are real
and ask you for your name, your signature
and a date of birth
as if they are the only reminders of a presence in
this reality. im falling back inside of me.
as i have the sun and the moon, and for at least
twelve hours the stars
i always forget theres more then what they are
i have to walk on footpaths and into post
offices
and write something to prove I am not just
a delusion, a figure of someone else's dream
I have to see the handwriting or the text on the screen
to remind me I'm not dead
to remind my veins the world hasnt come to an end.
'how are you going?' tilted head to the side, as if they
care and curiosity isnt kicking and alive
Going? I'm not going. I'm spinning deeper and deeper
into a world I'm not even sure exists, standing still
but moving faster than anybody thought humanly capable

Shudder. Stop Time. Stare.
'......just keep playing'

And everyday the same old scene.

[sometimes] I'm so outside myself, I can barely feel

my feet on the ground. Detachment- the voices in my head

are the only sound.

and on others I feel so heavily placed in my bones

that I couldn't even turn over to

strangle myself.

sometimes the icy chill of the pillow is the only

thing that reminds me I am alive

they end up taking over for you. voices that can

speak the words better and you're just curiously awaiting the words they say.

sometimes I'm so outside myself, I watch myself

as I sleep. And they try to convince me, its better this way

or so it would seem

until my head feels so heavy, it can barely dream

like an illness that is spreading displacement from

the base of my spine and the desperation that comes with knowing

this emptiness comes from deep within

like a missing piece, that makes you want to rip through your

arteries, misplace every fibre, tear up every tissue

until you find that empty bit

so you can fill it in

sometimes I have to hold down on my brachial artery - just to check it is still beating. As if my mind has forgotten to tell my body it’s dead. Or is it the other way around? Everything’s the other way round with me

i can't stop them, silence them inside

without having one hand shaking around

the butcher knife

most of the time I don't know who I want to

hurt more; myself or them; but I can't

catch them they disappear from my periphery



[sometimes] I put razorblades under my tongue

and hope they will try

to kiss me

but I just end up swallowing blood along with all the

words they stop me speaking



[sometimes] I think medicine would be better then this

a sleepy comatose in pharmaceutical bliss

I can't seem to find the right line



[sometimes] I have to hold down on my brachial artery

to check it is still moving

As if it believes you're still alive

I'm still waiting for it to prove me otherwise

[sometimes I can't stop them I can't silence them]

and that sometimes

is

now

Sometimes,
I feel like ripping apart my skin,
and searching for a reason for why
I feel this empty.
Maybe my veins are tangled,
or something is lodged
in my ribcage.
Because it feels like
something inside of me is
missing or broken.

I [sometimes] lye alone, turn off my houselights,
Raise my glass, and hold a butcher knife
Instead of a hand.

It's winter. And the voices won't go away.
Sometimes I wish the cold
Would could freeze them in my membranes
before they spilled through the space

Sometimes it's hard to say even one thing true
When all eyes have turned aside
They used to talk to you
And people on the street seem to disapprove
So you keep moving away
And forget what you wanted to say

Little bird, little bird
Brush your gray wings on my head
Say what you said, say it again
They tell me I'm crazy
But you told me I'm golden

Sometimes it's hard to tell the truth from a lie
Nobody knows what's in the hold of your mind
We are all buildings and people inside
Never know who'll walk through the door
Is it someone that you've met before?