shouldwetalkaboutthis-blog

[shouldwetalkaboutthis-blog]

“You wake up every morning to fight the demons you fought the day before. And that, my dear, is bravery.”

— Unknown

[shouldwetalkaboutthis-blog]

Snoooooot

[shouldwetalkaboutthis-blog]

The reason I get out of bed, My best friend for 11 years, my little demon #writingbuddy

[shouldwetalkaboutthis-blog]

Far too true, It’s easier to fixate on the ideal scenarios in our own minds than the prospect of reality. That’s why there are so many good story tellers in the world. 

u ever get really apathetic about your interests for no reason so u just start cycling through all your past hyperfixations in ur head out of an inexplicable need to feel passion for something

[shouldwetalkaboutthis-blog]

Its often hard to talk about mental illness. Expression in artwork and literature is a healthy way to combat feeling insecure about sharing. 

While my guitar gently weeps

 The lyrics creep up the stairs, my eyes are open hair up on end, Its here.

My feet touch the floor feeling the carpet in between my toes

its real

I hold the wall and start to walk

Lyrics creep up the stairs

The sound grows louder and louder

I search your face in between the crack of the door

The guitar slowly weeps and so do you

I crawl back up the stairs, little hands clenched

 School ends, I walk tracing the outlines and reflection through the windows

I act out scenes in my head, dragging my feet

I push the door checking for the guitar, with each push the pressure increases

The bottle clinks, red wine stains your lip

Blood runs down your arm and you stare at me from the kitchen floor

I pause

No music, no neighbours, your breathing

“I don’t know what happened” I stare at your eyes, you begin to cry

I grab the kitchen towel, wrap it as hard as I can as if I can stop the illness stop the music stop the guitar “Its going to be okay, what happened?”

You look at me your eyes a dilution of tears, anger and mascara bleeding down your face, “I don’t remember doing it.”

You shake, the room is dark, time has passed quicker than the blood flowing from your arm.

What do I do,

We go to bed, I look at the ceiling for answers it can’t provide

I hear a noise

lyrics creep through the door looking for a familiar friend and listening ears, my eyes are open hair up on end,

It’s here