I hate the way my face looks back at me, but there certainly might be a broken mirror or two tonight.
I’m scared I’ll find my mom has committed suicide. I get anxious when I slide the faded silver key into the rusted doorknob and there is silence. I imagine a tub full of her blood spilling onto the corroded tile or her head in the oven. It makes me so incredibly sad. I sit here in the room next to my parents and wonder when she got so bad. When did it become okay to swallow those pills, and did you think of me, of us, of what it meant and how it would make us feel. Or was it as selfish as people always make suicide attempts sound. Did you really want out that badly when I ask you everyday what’s wrong? Was it that hard to get help, did your whole being feel so suffocated by daily life that having people who love you regardless became okay to hurt?
I love you mom. Please don’t do this to me again. Seeing you in the psych ward was the toughest thing i’ve ever had to do. Tougher than seeing the dead body of my grandmother as the light escaped her once bright eyes. Tougher than playing “you are my sunshine” at her funeral with my cousins and all of us mentally breaking down at the same time. You are so much to me and I hope you don’t feel like I take that for granted.
my beautiful girlfriend and I did a photoshoot for a friend. This is how I wish I dressed all the time.
I wish I were talented with photography. I want to take pictures of the love of my life, to show her how beautiful she is. I want her to see how I see her. I wish I could give her my heart and soul and let her read all of it. My words are only words and my actions are only actions, but if she could feel the burrow she’s made within my broken self, she could see that she’s really the glue that holds it all together. I want her to see this in pictures. That she is every beautiful thing this world could offer me.
There was a time when the world didn’t scare me so much. The tallest buildings looked like jungle gyms and swing sets were wings and weightlessness. It feels like a spider crawling through your heart, devouring your memories, capturing your happiness into a web of regrets and resentment. this is growing older.