i. i am wild ivy and you are a wooden house with broken window panes and walls too high to climb. you will let me in and i will wrap myself so tight around your bones trying to keep you together, but you will get tired of feeling me there every time you breathe.

ii. i am the songs you’ve learned to hear between uneasy breaths when i would tell you i loved you, but i will turn into slurred words and ripped chords and you will finally realize that we’ve always been an off-tune melody.

iii. i am the aftermath of a storm clutching to your fingertips when you drag your hands along my skin like you are triggering a natural disaster and you will find it hard to live with dust and debris gathering mountains under your fingernails.

iv. i am gracelessly placed kisses that will turn into gusts of wind against your lips and you will never teach your mouth to embrace tornadoes and i guess that’s why you took off whenever it started to rain.

you’ll lose everything to this disorder

Your body is a canvas of color.
don’t let it bruise with self hatred or fade away with sadness.
Your soft skin has turned blue from open wounds and your ribs have marked hues along your fragile covering.

Your body is a canvas of color.
don’t let it shrink into heavy bones or wither into empty pages.
Your skin has melted away and hangs loose along your spine and your pale eyes have snatched away the beauty of your face.


where do you go with all this heavy?

The thing with anxiety is that they never teach you where to put it down.
They never teach you how to get rid of it; how to pull it right out of your bones like picking out weeds.
So you carry it. You carry it; the bubbling in your chest, the static in your head, the shaking of your hands.
You carry it in the way your mouth turns dry and the sirens go off in your ears.
You carry it with you and everyone can see it in your eyes.
They can see it leak onto everything you touch.

so where do you put it down?

– fragments