Latest Posts by 9divine9 - Page 2

You haven’t called

You haven’t called, so the last time you did I fell right back asleep. I keep telling myself, this is for the better.

You called again, I shifted my time to be spent with someone who actually cared. I’m happier now.

I keep telling myself to let you go. But I feel so mean forcing myself to say goodbye, so I tell myself to take it slow. And I’m not gonna lie, this distance, is making me feel sick to my bones.

God. I sound like a bitch, but you’re the one who told me sometimes I need to be more of one. So I’m sorry if I need to be one for you.

Some days..

Some days I can’t move. I stare at the wall waiting for the floor to crumble beneath me to just end my misery.

I fantasize of walking into an icy cold river, rocks in my pockets, & dried flowers in my hair. Hoping, that it’ll just end my misery.

But then there’s a voice, screaming out my name on green covered hills. Praying, I make it back alive. The echoes ricocheting in my ears.

And I follow the soft voice waiting for me on the other side. Promising her that I’ll meet her in confidence one day.

Just wanted to tell you that you’re doing amazing! Keep up being the best YOU that you can be!!

Thank you so much!! This made my day!! This is incredibly sweet!

What is it about me?

What is it about me that keeps you off the edge of your seat? Anticipating for me to trip on my left knee and fall over at your feet.

Caught in the act of a scene you made all in your head. Cut, scene, end.

Folding me in-between pages on a book that’s unable to close shut. Ruining the books you showcase on your bookshelf.

What is it about me that is so unnerving? That you wait for me to falter just to bring me down even further.

What is it about me where you find the need to nitpick at every little thing?

What is it about me where you need to know my every little move? As if my line cannot cross between others.

I’m stuck in a limbo of wanting to make you proud, and yet never ever being the one you choose to praise. So I’ll walk away, giving you an inch made you take me for miles.

So I choose to ask myself now, what about me?

Nightmares

Some nights I have the most vivid nightmares and I can’t tell if they’re memories from the past or wicked hypotheses about what tomorrow will look like if I continue the way that I am the dreams hurt, like cuts on my arm that only I can see. scars burned white with every itch maybe i'm broken, truly, unbelievably broken.

and I have no one to blame but myself

I’m happy for you

You stop caring and I’m happy for you. I’m not someone worth thinking about anymore really.

I hold a lot of baggage and that’s something you don’t need right now. Or ever.

So I’ll be happy for you because I think being away from me is the best that life will give you.

and I’m a lot, I know. And I’m sorry.

It’s easy to say

It’s easy to say I hope you’ve been well, than calling me up and having a meaningful conversation. It’s easy to say I support you, than showing up on the night of my performance. It’s easy to tell everyone that you know me, than actually knowing how I'm doing that day. It’s easy to say I hope you had a good day, than asking how my day went. It's easy to say I hope you get better, than supporting me on each step of the way. But I'd like to think loving me would be easy.

I wish I was loved by you like the way you loved your loved ones.

I wish I was loved by you like the way you loved your loved ones. And it's funny but I should’ve read the signs, we were never as close as I thought we were. I admired you. I looked up to you. and that's where it stopped. That's where I should've realized that everything would've never been reciprocated.

Fingertips were always barely touching the glass it peered though. And maybe just maybe, I was the object on the other side, surrounded by long panes of glass, unable to escape. Maybe I was meant to be observed by you, but never truly loved by you.

It’s been 8 months now and I haven’t heard a word from you. I hope you know I miss you. But it’s time I stop trying. No more waiting to hear your voice, for invites on nights where I get lonely, on days where it’s rainy & the sun won’t shine. I've had enough. and I hope everything I gave you was enough. Because maybe truly, I’m meant to be alone to be able to finally break down the glass.

I’ve been losing my appetite

I’ve been losing my appetite, and no it hasn’t been recently — it’s been years.

My whole life actually. It’s always been like this.

Have I always been scary to look at?

I lay on the floor of my room staring at my ceiling through the gaps of broken fingers, wondering if I’ll ever change. I don’t know.

That takes strength though, right? I don’t know if I have any more of that left. The fight in me has disappeared.

The only ones fighting for me now are my parents shaking my frail body like a rag-doll as I stare into the abyss reminding me that I’m still alive. That I need to drink water. That I need to eat. That I need to take it step by step.

But all I feel is this impending doom. I’m tired of everything. Everyone. Me. I'm tired of myself feeling tired. I’m mean and I’m usually never mean. Why am I being so mean? Especially, to myself.

Someone once told me eating wasn’t meant to be enjoyed, it was meant for survival. I appreciate the way they tried to help. But I think they failed to realize I’m tired of surviving. I’m exhausted, actually.

So I’ve— like always, been losing my appetite. Everything tastes bland, everything is so uninteresting, and everything isn’t worth eating for.

like I’m five again

I hear the distinct footsteps across hallway floors, voices ricocheting off thin walls, cabinets slammed with force, and the door of the fridge being thrown off its hinges.

“I thought we moved passed this”, a thought that runs across my mind often. But it seems like we haven’t, and I’m hiding in the depths of my closet with puffy eyes, arms with scars, and knees to my heart. like I’m five again.

Every scream and yell triggers a shake from my bones, clattering from the last meal I had last night. Teeth clenched in aptitude and tears falling down with every hitch. like I’m five again.

I double check if my door is locked & if I have enough blocking it by force. Because words are words and threats are threats, but actions to end my life are much quicker.

So quietly I hide back in the nook of my darkened closet, tears so quiet that only the ants can hear them. Hiding this part of my life like it’s another Tuesday morning, smile gracing my hallow cheeks, and telling myself everything will go back to normal. because it’s just like I’m five again.

I miss you like

I miss you like the moon misses the waves of the shore, lingering to bring it closer to its halo.

But you miss me like a shooting star in the sky on the brightest night in the city.

I’ve missed you like a dwarf planet yearning to be pulled back in its sun’s orbit.

But you miss me like a summer breeze on the hottest day in July.

It’s not the same, and it may never be. It’s never enough, and I blame myself for it. I hate myself most for longing to be missed by you like winter’s first snowfall.

Everyday

Today my mom asked me why I haven’t eaten all day. This cycle goes on everyday.

Today my dad asked me why I didn’t want to eat all day. This question gets asked everyday.

Today my sister knocked on my door, dragged me out of bed, and asked me why I haven’t moved all day. This happens everyday.

Maybe I’m broken. No, I know the choices I made have been decided.

Maybe I’m frozen. No, I know the world is still moving on without me.

I don’t eat because I want to be pretty. The answer is simple really— I sit in my room staring at my wall because I simply don’t want to exist anymore. And some part of me hopes that one less meal means one less day of my life. I linger for just one day where I don't feel terrible anymore.

I don’t move because I don’t want to get hurt, I don’t say anything because I’m afraid of being a bother. I see the way people ignore my eyes, see my smile and think, "oh they’re fine." I hear the way people are afraid to ask how I’m doing. I hear the way they fumble their words of reassurance. I can see their schedules filled with plans that don’t include me. Or maybe— it's all in my head again & people don't hate me, I do.

So here I sit, staring at the wall, hoping that maybe tomorrow isn’t like everyday.

A thank you letter to my sisters

Today you knocked on my door, and dragged me out of bed. You placed my cat in my arms, hoping I’d feel comfort instead of dread. It helped, for awhile, until you made me breakfast and coffee past noon. I yawned and cried, and you held my hand as I sobbed.

I gave you knives, scissors, & tweezers to place away for awhile. Telling you I can’t see them or I’ll harm myself & be hostile.

We’ve have our moments, and for them I am sorry. But I know if I fall I’ll always have my sister to catch me & carry.

Sisterhood is sacred, honest, & true. And forever may I be grateful of being blessed by you.

When I fainted, you placed me in bath water, & picked up my frail body off the floor. Heartbroken that the path towards healing was one that would feel evermore.

I remember when we were little and you would cover my ears with headphones, the vinyls playing loudly to fade out the screaming outside our doors. Playing games with me in the middle of the night while our parents roamed the streets looking for our missing brother. When I would get nightmares and you would share your half of the bed. When we had a fridge more than half empty and you would half a raw ramen and we would bite into them as they tasted like lead. When we would hide in the closet as they screamed at us to behave or they’d knock us out dead. When you reminded me to hold my pride as men would prey on me, praying we’d seek our revenge. When you handed me my favorite trinket as the ambulance took me away, holding my hand, & telling me I’ll be okay.

Many times have I failed finding sisterhood in others— and never does it touch the same. The lack of compassion is jarring, nothing can compare, or even aim.

There are too many who do not understand, the beauty of sisterhood & the chaos in its wonderland.

For my sisters I am grateful. Forever & ever.

May I try to live another day, just for my sisters.

Why am I the exception?

I should’ve seen it from the start, perhaps I was always a henchman sent to do your biddings. but when it came to my knees being scraped, I got up on my own. I covered my cuts with bandages I found used on the side of the road. or maybe I was seeking comfort in places where I shouldn't have. I always do this. I'm so naive. I wish I didn't fall for every nicety. Sometimes I wish I was meaner. But it hurts me to be mean, and it hurts to be nice to myself too.

I feel like everyone hates me

I feel like everyone hates me, I know it's in my head. Or maybe it's just the fact I've been boiling inside with anger bright as red. Or maybe it's a hidden animosity, where I tried so hard to be liked, that from the start it was set up for failure because I shifted myself outright. Maybe if I was louder they'd like me more? Maybe if I had more followers they'd think I was worth keeping around? Maybe if I was prettier they'd think I wasn't worth comparing? Maybe if I kept my tears quiet I wouldn't be so annoying? I'm sorry. I hope it's all in my head.

I walk underneath your shadow

no matter where I walk it's under your shadow. right beneath yours, intertwined. I don't know whether to be grateful or not. whether or not it's something I need. but on days where I need your shadow to keep me away from the sun, you walk a little farther, never there when I need it most. these days it seems that through distance, as you walk each step a little faster and farther, I can no longer feel your warmth. and your shadow has been making me feel colder. so maybe it's time to just stop moving and let your shadow walk alone. because I think I'm ready for this shadow to finally be my own.

I wish I lit up the rooms I walked into,

I wish I lit up the rooms I walked into, but instead it feels as if I walk with a great cloud daunting over me. And every room instead fills with water, people feeling the weight of the cold on their ankles, feeling the crisp rain pouring on their skin, hair wet, & palms sweat with nerves. So they leave, because why stay near someone who makes a room so somber?

I have a soft voice, softer than petals falling in the wind. A voice that gets even dimmer when I feel like my last spark has been washed out by the rain, and silence reins in. I have a laugh that often gets called undesirable and unattractive. So I laugh quietly under my breath. I have big black eyes that stay puffy from the salty tears that hung them open the night prior. I have soft freckles under eye bags that are often forgotten, brown eyes and brown hair that are easily mistaken for any other softly green under-toned tanned girl. I have hair long enough to cover elbows that often get called terrifying by outsiders. I have bones that show through the seams of my dresses. I have wrists that often get measured by the fingertips of strangers.

I wish my voice was like thunder, striking a room like lightning. Unforgettable, strong, and beautiful. I wish my laugh was sweet like the summer, honest, acidic, tasteful, addicting and loud. I wish I had the courage to repeat myself when I haven’t been heard instead of shutting down. I wish I wouldn’t get mistaken for any other girl. I wish my eyes weren’t burnt from all the salt that they’ve cried. I wish my arms weren’t so tiny. I wish I stopped comparing myself to everyone.

But overall. I wish I was kinder to myself, and then maybe— just maybe, I’d be able to light up the room in which I’m the only one in it.

I write letters that never get written back.

I write letters that never get written back. I send love that is never received. I say thank you to those that don't appreciate it. I say things that don’t mean as much to the person they’re said to. I run when things get hard. I’m quiet when I feel out of place. I roll my eyes when I’m too scared to speak my truth. Maybe it’s time to burn those letters. Leave those rooms. Speak with my chest. Run into the fire and face everything head on. But here I stand. Quiet. Alone. In my own head as it’s always been.

I have an issue with facing things head on

I have an issue with facing things head on, with sitting down and telling myself… okay this is what you do. I used to be good at it. I used to be the one people would go to when they needed a whole spreadsheet on what to do, on what classes to take, on what goals to set up for themselves. But something about UCLA drained me, even if it was just two years. It sucked what soul I had left. It stole my youthful energy, my aspirations of who I wanted to be, of my hope, my dreams, and most definitely my spirit. I thrived there, yes I did, but at the cost of my sanity. Everyday I walked those halls I could feel the pressure crippling me down to my core. My feet crumbling beneath me and my sense of self slowly being overshadowed by the ideals of an institution overthrown with wh!te supremacy. Unfortunately, it led me to the darkest pits I could feel in my bones. I wanted to fade away and never exist. Maybe it was my fault, a young girl moving to the big city in hopes of finally being free. Maybe it was all my fault that I never paced myself. Maybe it truly was all my fault, after the world shut down for a couple years I finally saw hope to escape, hope that masqueraded underneath a veil of thief. I won’t be ungrateful for being able to experience what I have, meet some amazing brilliant minds, but also I won’t be ever truly so blind to say this place didn’t leave me with the most of scars. Or maybe, this place exposed the scars that I thought I had already healed from. “I wish I did this differently, I wish I did that differently.” No. I did my best everyday, actually. I did what I never thought possible, actually. I’ve been working so hard to be where I am right now since I was a young teenage girl, so why… So why do I still feel— like a failure? Will this feeling ever go away? I’m so close to the finish line, yet my energy to keep running is gone, and I hate myself for it.

Depression makes me feel like a dull knife, you know you can still use it but it’s still dull even after it’s sharpened. Try as much as you can, use as much force as you need but the knife will always be, dull. Maybe you’re too lazy to sharpen it thoroughly, maybe you’re too attached to let it go. So it sits there. In your drawer beside the newly sharpened knives, unused, useless, and there in memoriam.

“You should write a novel about your life”

“You should write a novel about your life”, something she’d often hear. Yeah sure, her life was— peculiar to say the least and I guess it’s a life worth the write but it definitely wasn’t something anyone actually wanted to hear. Especially on the precipice of their roaring twenties. Who has a life that bad before their twenties that it’s worth writing about? She didn’t wanna hear that, feel it, especially when she wanted to make something out of herself first. Or maybe too often it was the idea of having to make something out of herself that had burdened her. The struggle, it had to have been worth it of course if she.. made something out of herself. Right?

You turn 18 and you can vote, so you celebrate turning 18. You turn 19, okay no one actually celebrates that, you’re just 19. You turn 20 and damn you’re 20, you’re just a twenty-teen! You turn 21 and you celebrate being able to finally buy alcohol on your own and walk into bars like you’re the shit. You turn 22 and you celebrate .. what do you celebrate? Oh yeah, your Bachelor’s Degree. What about so on and so on? Is it twenty-teen until she’s thirty-teen? She’ll keep celebrating until it constantly feels like she's on the precipice of something great? And nothing actually ever fucking happens?

But she thought too, what happened to normalcy? The struggle to just be.. perfectly normal. Be alright. What about that? The movies had warped her idea that with struggle came greatness, but what if greatness was just— no longer being in that dark place and living a completely normal life? And with a sigh, she dropped her pen and began to wonder when she’d ever actually start writing.