herarising-blog

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One of my essays got picked up by Anti-Heroin Chic Mag, check it out!

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Lunar Base Jumping with Depression

I traveled to the moon in a ship made of tin foil gum wrappers, Wrigleys all the way. I was held together by hair clips and rubber bands and I basked in the beauty of the lunar dust on my hands. Someplace new was nice. But this place was soon terrifying, with monsters whispering things in my ear about my thoughts, how everyone could hear them, my roommate, how he was trying to kill me, my friends, how they were angels of darkness. It’s silent on the moon, no one else can possibly be talking, but yet they are. I’m convinced the moon gods choose me, that I’m special, that I can read minds and change hearts and that i can see the ghosts that follow me. But I couldn’t see them, they were as invisible to me as the blue sky I left behind on earth. The sadness follows shortly after. My mind can’t turn a phrase, the gears gum up, my rubber bands snap and my hair clips break, the shiny plastic leaving ruts in the grey moon dust. I’m screaming, I’m crying, I’m cutting my arms, screaming at my loved ones, the blood floating around me in goblets as I wonder why I can breathe on the moon without a suit, when I would rather just die. I decide to pick up the hair clips, glue them back together, replace my rubber bands with duct tape and my gears with mirrors that show my truth self and I go, far away, back to sun, back to the stars, back home. The earth is difficult to reach and I nearly crash a couple of times, but I know the ground there is stable, and I will be stable, because I’ve saved myself, and still I will rise and I go forth and god, I will fly. Yes, I will fly.

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Phone poetry

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My Boyfriend is a Morning Person

I start each morning (Well every weekend Morning) With a cup of tea And a cigarette Every morning (And I mean every Morning) My boyfriend wakes Up at 6 He makes coffee and a Full breakfast spread Takes his time to Watch the news and Get ready for the day I roll out of bed like A lazy cat stretching With rumpled hair And then I stare at the clock And see I have fifteen Minutes to get Ready for work And rush around like A cat on fire Skipping breakfast I Half assed brush my teeth and I Splash water on my face And run out the door My boyfriend leisurely Roams around the house Takes his time Gets ready in a calm fashion And even has time to make His lunch for that day Putting each component in little Tupperware Compartments like a Pinterest picture He's a morning person His only flaw.

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Sleep

My standing theory behind how psych meds work is that they make you too tired to actually feel anything.

I’m waking up in a Christian Scientist’s house and all I can think about is pills. If you’re suicidal, a Christian Scientist’s house is the best place to be, if you’re still actually somewhat trying to sty alive. I don’t quite know where I am at on that still. Can you kill me now? Can you hear me now? I don’t think you can if you’re still letting me live here.

If I go blow myself up and yell hail Allah right before my vocal cords turn to dust, will I get 72 virgins just like all the xenophobes say? (Certainly more than I have here.) I don’t actually want to die, I just don’t always see another way out of this lifelong struggle against myself. I feel like this struggle is a burden to the those around me I love, and I can’t bear it anymore. I got raped two years ago and still can’t fathom it, it feels like my best friend is replacing me, I’m not happy in my relationship and goddammit it even feels like my cat doesn’t like me as much as he used to.

Fuck this malaise. I just wanna sleep.

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Licking the Asstray: One Year Quitting Blues

I want a fucking cigarette.

Out of every damn vice that didn’t suit me…

Pot, alcohol, xanax and adderall

(Anything else I’m too much of a pussy to try)

That one did brother.

It takes the edge off my mind, my sound, my silence.

(Almost wish I hadn’t quit, another year or two at least would have sufficed for the smell and the taste and the wonder and the illegitimate fake badassery of my brief smoking career.)

I want the sparkly sound of the light, the smoke, the smell of the ash,

That pain with the spark hits your arm, so painfully clean

The taste of an ashtray on your tongue, beatnik crack

Addict’s music.

Romanticizing the drug addicting, lung blackening,

Emphaynsa