Raw Emotions

Paper-thin

The walls of my room are a sanctuary.
Close the door, keep everyone out.
This clustered and cramped chamber will tell you all about me.
I live in a broomstick cupboard, a bed hoisted up by a tree trunk in the corner.
My books are stacked on the shelves given, then some more on top and on the floor and under my pillows.
My bookshelf alone will tell you about my very soul, the creased edges of my favourite books- the untouched spines of stories left untold.
Notebooks filled to the brim and stories I never came back to.
You will find notes strewn on my desk, dates circled and crossed out and circles again on my calendar.
Sketchpad after sketchpad after sketchpad, all of them tucked against each other on another shelf.
My port holes are of an unequal size, every wall a different colour.
My room is an open pallet of acrylics, the vibrancy smeared against every possible wall, offensively bright.
My cork board contains notes, every one of them scrambled and pined over each other like a deck of cards gone wrong. Scratchy writing in different colours, lyrics to songs, thoughts too fleeting and delicate to keep but I tried anyway.
Drawings of another hand stuck down so I am forced to remember that I have a reason to wake up. To get up.
My plants sit on my window ledge, cacti and succulents reminding me that I am a mother and therefore I have a responsibility of care, I must care for these organisms- this collection of cells.

The walls of my room are a diary of my own personality. People glance in and see busy, they see work, they see clutter and creativity.
I never let anyone stay. Everyone is a passer by, no one gets a permanent invitation for the night.
For while these walls show positive and busy things, for those who stay longer they show disease.
The books strewn around show my inability to sleep, the obscene amounts of bookmarks left in every book- my attention span bleeding out too fast to absorb a story that I long for.
Notepads full are accompanied with love letters and notebooks of valentines cards and affections that I dare not open not touch. Sketchpads next to textbooks that I can't bring myself to look into, my mind too much of a whirlpool to stay on one topic without swaying.
The notes strewn across my desk telling of ancient times when work was something I could manage, layers of dust collecting atop my stereo for music has no purpose. Notes stuck to my mirror in the upmost left corner tell of numbers, measurements upon measurements, each one meaning something slightly different. The desperation to have my body sway in the wind rather than stay still, the desire to stand up and feel light headed. I will fall in love with my hunger and let it consume me.
My toothbrush sits in my pencil pot because I use it about as much as I draw, which isn't often enough.
Valentines gifts shoved in dusty corners in the vein hope that they will combust and burn me with them.
Instruments long forgotten and sad, victims to my illness.
My pencils sharpeners hidden away in places where I know i can still find them, bandages always in the same draw. Butterfly stitches steile and prepared for a massacre.
So many things I need to say to people so they let me dissolve into my bed. My mattress is shaped perfectly to my body, the same position I place myself in every night and I feel the drag immediately.
It's not just sadness and tiredness. It's having to cut off your hair to stop dreadlocks from forming from your lack of motivation to even look after yourself. It's your body being sore from sleeping too much, the covers suffocating you and giving you life at the same time. It's silences and "I'm just so busy" and "I'm too tired to eat" and "I feel so sick" and "please don't ask me why my collar bones are so grazed, it was an accident I swear."
It is slowly watching your body decompose into bedsheets and letting it.
The desire to give food away because you know your friends will take it gladly. It's the frustration you get when your mum gives you something you know they won't like, so you end up hoping that you won't like it either.
It's the guilt when you throw it away but also the satisfaction that you won against another meal.
It's the sad look in people's eyes and the "it'll get better"s that tear me apart. I know it'll get better. But when I am suffocating in my own skin, barely able to blink because I keep forgetting, barely able to watch videos that will make me happy because a sick part of me wants to suffer, knowing it'll get better only makes me feel worse because I'm only dragging this on.
Countless counselling appointments where all I do is talk-
£40 pound an hour every week.
I've been going for 27 weeks
That's £1008 pounds wasted on talking.
Money that I am taking from my family because I'm sick, too sick to manage alone even though I will be able to I just struggle I know I'm wasting money because I'm only talking and just talking maybe it's because I'm trying to replace a relationship I lost with my mother because she changed one day and never came back!

The walls of my room are a sanctuary. A place where I shut the door and keep them out.
But it is also a slaughter house, the walls splashed with the colour of my creativity and life as it's drained out of me.
I fear the days I leave school. Because I just won't get up or look after myself. And that's just something I have to live with.
So I will continue wasting money while others make artwork around me. And I will continue to complain while others create masterpieces, my mind bitter toward their success because I know that I can't touch such a feeling. I do not know what it is like to feel accomplishment for I am so used to regret.