playing with trains.

i am going to tell you something i’ve never told anyone before. one night last year, when i left at 1230 in the morning and didn’t come back until after 3, i was going to end it. i had decided to walk to the traintracks and get pegged off by a train. i decided to do this and decided if i wasn’t meant to die then there would be a sign in the time it takes me to walk to the traintracks & wait for a train. and i decided that i would wait by the tracks & if i happened to change my mind in the time it took the train to get here, then okay. i was in a selfdestructive mindset and put the choice of whether i carqed or not into the universe.

two things happened that night, before i found my train.

i got a phone call, randomly, from an old friend i hadn’t spoken to in ages. you know how rare it is for me to get phone calls, but she called as i was walking. and we talked as i sat & waited for my train. i didn’t tell her what my plan was, & only briefly mentioned that i was upset, but we had a nice bitch sesh. when she went to bed a random old guy out for a walk took her place. i think he felt obligated to see how i was as i was sitting alone. we talked for half an hour; him about his troubles with his wife & college-aged son, and me about.. nothing, really. i talked about stupid fluff bullshit & didn’t even notice the strangeness of the scenario; two strangers sharing a moment & a park bench at 3am. it’s surprising how candid you can be when you think you only have a couple hours or so to spare.

we were still talking when i heard the horn of my train; so loud i could feel it. my train. my two sides fought internally as i sat a lot stiller than i felt. i contemplated running, leaving the man of the night and climbing the fence and finding the tracks. there wasn’t much time to decide.

the man, oblivious to the reality he’s sitting next to, continued to ramble on about his insomnia and how it gets too hot in his apartment so he likes to walk at night, when it’s quiet, when he can think.

i decided i couldn’t leave a witness other than the anonymous train conductor. i figured even in my fucked up state i couldn’t give someone who took a minute to talk to me the image of all of me splattered against concrete & hot steel so instead i turned towards the train & watched it pass.

i swear i could feel it chugging in my veins.


collecting selfdestruction in cups & running out of shelf space.

beautiful sunshine saturday
finds me

fighting urges to draw
pretty pictures on my wrists with razor blades;
just something to show i was here.

keeping pens away from my arms
of which i’m convinced would look better
stuck with holes from which
my soul could escape.

wasted youth on caring too much & not caring enough & now
my skin peels off in layers & i
barely notice.

wasting more clock circles
burning smokes down to where they sting my fingers
just the way i like;
another couple callouses
to add to my collection.

the cusp of not caring.

normally i’d be
too terrified to leave the house like this
but now i’m too mad to give a shit.

stomping out anger on flat feet & unforgiving concrete
skipping streets & just daring
cars to hit me.

do to me what i wish i had the willpower for
instead of just
meaningful self-destruction,
little scars & wrinkles in time that stain
& last forever.

tear me from
the life i’ve found running stale
like worn goods left over
with neon-orange stickers; buy now, on sale.

in this place i’ve found somehow
unique abilities like
being able to regret things that haven’t even happened yet
unfortunately i’ve found this is not
an employable skill.

tired of being
tired of being looked at, lifted up,
floated just enough to survive
on caffeine old hope & smoke while i

turn my thoughts into scripture.

i think i’m
just tired of being.

today i must be feeling
optimistic for i find myself sitting on the couch
usually at times like these i’d be in the corner clinging to the floor to keep it from moving,

willing the world to stay still;
for once,
it does as i wish
& for one
i forget that i exist.

stuck between the seasons of when & never.

the obstacles they are coming
they are stacking up
like unfinished books;
no time to spare.

the obstacles are becoming
too much to bare
unrelenting i am
losing my step.

the obstacles are rerunning
tight static loops with sparks of something better
but only just for a minute
i’m unblinking but still
missing it.

the obstacles are overcoming
i shake before i shatter & i become undone, i
turn to crumble to be torn away
ripped up like paper confetti,
scattered like ashes;
i glitter on the surf.

i go
in pieces
to all the places i couldn’t have been
to all the places i’ve turned in
too untogether to manage —

caught in between the layers
of dawn & dusk i am
collecting in corners
of unwashed windows,
waiting for the breeze & when the water comes
i am swept out to sea


this time

i go

i got my degree from the universe; it too took four years.

i) on death

at times the only strength i had
the only hope was in hoping
i wouldn’t do it.

ii) on life

the bigger part of me was doubtful:
did not see the way out
so i couldn’t imagine doing it;
i’ve never been capable without a plan.

iii) on perspective

i still don’t have a plan,
but i’ve noticed
once again
chemicals have saved my life
in the same way that they’ve ruined it.

reading the words on my wrists.

you went with me
back from the edge —
i don’t know what i was expecting
but it wasn’t this:

getting stuck between the pages with
no chance to peel apart.

got so caught up in imagining
i forgot
to make a wish
and when i awake i’m

getting caught & curled up
too afraid to breathe,

making mistakes with matchsticks & scalpel blades.

the burnt up bits glisten
when the light hits them
not listening to
weak words that whispered

forever flesh diaries of i’ve beens

burnt & bruised & all used up
given away & wasted with
mistakes littering my arms like freckles from the sun.

how far i have come in one year. (when small things become huge)

dear depressive side that doesn’t remember;
dear negative thoughts;
dear irrational mind that likes to deny;
dear disordered head;
dear worthless piece of shit;
shut up & listen:

recovery is not linear!

a year ago..
i couldn’t get out of bed.
& when i did,
‘getting up’ meant moving from lying on the bed to lying on the couch.

a year ago..
i couldn’t get to sleep (until 5am if i was lucky).
i couldn’t wake before 3, 4, 5pm without feeling physically ill;
couldn’t make do with less than 10 hours of sleep,
& twelve was preferable.

a year ago i’d awake
desperate & depressed
closing my eyes & begging sleep to take me away
another couple hours until i had to face
the day i wasn’t ready for.

a year ago i was too weak
to even stand in the shower, &
i couldn’t stand to brush my teeth more often than
a couple times a week.

a year ago i was single digit ferritin, brutally anemic, unable to even remember my blood test results required a bottle of iron pills.

a year ago i was utterly undiagnosed & unable to cope.

a year ago..
i couldn’t cook.
i couldn’t clean.
i couldn’t see yesterday’s dishes in a pile without crying & feeling defeated.
i couldn’t even walk with flat feet because my leg muscles were so shrunken & weak.
i couldn’t eat more than two small snack ‘meals’ a day;
dry saltines were considered ‘dinner’ —
i’d eat half a package on
a very good day.

a year ago..
i’d awake weighing a thousand pounds
arms like cinderbricks
unable to move,
stomach so swollen i could pass for pregnant.

a year ago a glass of water was heavy &
my arms would shake to carry it.

a year ago..
i couldn’t even have one okay day.
i couldn’t do anything other than selfmedicate from the moment i awoke to the moment i went to sleep for three years.
sometimes i couldn’t even talk.

a year ago i
couldn’t even realize i was in a tunnel, let alone see a light at the end of it,
couldn’t tell my psychiatrist the whole truth,
couldn’t feel like i deserved anything,
couldn’t accept that i needed help,
couldn’t accept medication,
couldn’t accept recovery,
couldn’t reject my disordered coping mechanisms,

& didn’t even want to try.

three hundred & sixty some days,
reading through the list of how things used to be and i
feel so very far away.

okay so
maybe i still feel
like a bag of shit
with once-tight jeans that still don’t fit
& maybe i still won’t tell my psychiatrist the whole truth
but then again

i am starting from scratch
working past
27 years of disordered eating,
27 years of messed up thoughts,
27 years of untreated celiac disease,
5 years of  being housebound by anxiety,
4 years of suicidal depression,
3 years of fulltime addiction,

1 year is nothing but three hundred & sixty some days of fighting everything i’ve ever known & so
perhaps i’m stronger than i think.
funny how a self-incriminating list
of how fucked up i used to exist
of all the ways i was ashamed —

can in three hundred & sixty some days
suddenly somehow
become empowering
if only because it’s all
three hundred & sixty some days away.