No Longer The Moon: A collection of writings from the month of October

Stained Glass

I am sorry they don't understand. I am happy they don't understand.

No one should have to feel like I do, but if they don't at least understand it then I am stuck in a place I can't seem to help myself out of.

I wish my anxiety was a rash and my depression was a womb, I wish I wore these things physically so people wouldn't think they are my imaginary friends. They aren't friends, they're my enemies and they live inside myself. If only they could see the Civil War inside of me like the one you read about the history books. Two sides fighting, sneaking up on me, causing me destruction. I do not want to lose the war.

I can't smash this like can or through it like a rock. I cry and I scream and I write and I bring everything that I feel inside out into this world so it feels real because I know that it is.

Attention. Why would I ever do this for attention? If I wanted that I would wear a red robe to class, I would burn down a tree, I would write my name in spray paint on buildings. I want nothing. I want something: to be understood, to be respected, and sometimes to be left alone.

Alone. Why do I want to be alone when I need people most? I build walls better than any architect to keep everyone out and it scares me when it works. I don't always want it to work. Constantly in a state of irony. I laugh at myself if nothing else.

I will get better, I will get worse, but if I can get even a little better, I will be better and that will have to be enough.