Maturity

And with maturity comes a sense of unknowing what was known. A loss of sweetness and gain of sadness. A darkness that grows at each passing day, crawling under every crack made. You hope for joy, you get undone. You long for freedom where there is none. You crave for love that isn’t there, you feel the void of emptiness. You bare your soul for hopeless tenderness. You bare you body for desire and compassion. What is there but disappointment and despair.

What do you live for if not for death. 

Nothing 

​I’m nothing

I’ll never be anything but this pathetic mess of a human being, too needy, too sensitive, too fucked up. Honestly, I want to die. I think of it constantly. The funny thing about it is that even when thoughts of suicide go through my head, I can still smile at people, pretend, strike up a somewhat decent conversation. 

But I want to die. And then again, I don’t. 

I’m not well. I’m not sure if I ever was. I can’t remember. But I can remember bits and pieces of fun and laughter and happiness. I remember kindess.

But dear god, I feel so empty and alone. Self-destructive. Unwanted. Unloved. An utter failure. I have achieved nothing in my life. Nothing worth remembering. Never touched anyone’s lives. Made no difference at all. 

I’m not well. 

I need help. 

Reach out. 

Hold me. 

Tell me something nice.

No need for love, just understanding will suffice. 

Smile at me. 

Tell me I make a difference somehow, if just a little. That I’m not just a waste of space. 

Help. Help. I’m drowning. 

What am I good for

What am I good at

What is my place in the world

Why am I still here

And why do I still care. 

Funeral Blues, by W.H. Auden

Image

 

(Cambridge, England. Photograph by Alice Fagiolo)

 

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone.

Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,

Silence the pianos and with muffled drum.

Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead

Scribbling in the sky the message He is dead.

Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves,

Let the traffic policeman wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,

My working week and my Sunday rest,

My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;

I thought that love would last forever, I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,

Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun.

Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;

For nothing now can ever come to any good.