to the conversations i replay in my head, here’s what i’d say instead

to the conversations i replay in my head,
here’s what i’d say instead:

1. what’s the point of you even trying to get to know me when you already made up your mind about me? you think i’m going to sit here and waste my time trying to convince you of who i am? you’re so stuck on me being where i’m from and the fact that i’m bipolar. so what if you read some fucking poems? stop calling me crazy. i already know that. i don’t need you or anybody reminding me of that. 

2. people are always saying they belong to the moon. that they’re moon children. well i’m not. i stay up with the moon but i’ve never belonged to her. i am a sun child. i just always end up hiding from the light that loves me and run with the darkness instead. because as soon as something good like light comes into my life, i expect it to abandon me right at the moment that i’m vulnerable. so i hide in the shadows of the moon instead because it’s so much easier. to not deal with the pain, you know?

3. i love you. i’ve waited a long time to tell you that.

4. i don’t like using terms of endearment anymore. it’s too personal and then men think i’m taking whatever we have way too seriously. i mean ask the men who i write poems about. i call them baby in my poems more than i fucking call them that in real life. wait, that means they would have to know the poems are about them. oh yikes. okay.

5. you should stop looking for me. if you wouldn’t have married the side chick, the woman that you cheated on me with, then maybe your life wouldn’t have been as messy. but you know what? you men never learn to stop fucking with a woman like me. i didn’t send anyone to fuck up your car but i’m glad that shit happened. you know how me and karma roll.

6. me being accepting of who i am and my sexuality isn’t going to damage your goddamn reputation or your image. don’t even mention me as your family member if you’re so embarrassed of me. i could care less who’s coming into the picture now, i’m not changing who i am for anyone. it took me years of self-sabotaging, of hating my body, of all this reckless abandon to finally….finally being okay with the woman i am, and you think i’m going to change that now? might as well start laughing now cause jokes on you.

7. if aliens came knocking on my door right now, i’d ask them to take me with them. i’d beg them to leave this planet because there’s nothing here for them but a bunch of morons. anyways, you mentioned deja vu. i think we experience it because there’s a parallel universe and sometimes we did something at the same time as our parallel that caused deja vu. i wonder what my parallel is doing. i wonder if she’s with that guy i always dreamed of being with one day. i hope she’s having a good time. i hope he’s getting her sunflowers. i hope she took him to south street seaport.

8. i’m so sorry about your dad dying. he was an amazing man. this isn’t fair at all. please let me know if you need anything, if there’s any way i can help. i want this pandemic to die just like you do. i’m sorry. i really am. is your mom okay? how’s your son holding up? here’s my number.

9. you feel like you don’t know me because you realized that i am more than my poems? wow. imagine that? being a person outside of the art? being a whole ass human being outside of a few words that i string along? being this complex woman who’s more than her heartache and the fight against women? being fun? did you think you were meeting someone broken that you needed to fix? because that’s condescending and utterly disrespectful for you to assume that i’m just a walking trauma.

10. tell me what you want. be specific. tell me so i won’t make mistakes when i see you. so i won’t push myself away when you tell me no. like can i choke you while i bite your lips and i’m straddled onto your hips? can we hold hands? can we just be? because i’ve made the decision that this time, i’m going to be very open with you.

– gretchen gomez

on being absent and other things

depression is the elephant in the room
it is the answer to all the questions i get asked

depression is not the reason i don’t get out of bed
because i still do

depression doesn’t pay my bills
but it is the reason why i won’t see you
i avoid you
at all cost
i am scared
these tears will fall like summer rain
and it wasn’t even part of the forecast

depression

i never asked for this
this hollow feeling
my chest has been ripped out
and it hurts
everything hurts

i want to apologize for all the times
i haven’t been there for you
depression has been visiting me
and you know how it is
we need to be the best hosts to our guests

i’m sorry
i’m so sorry that i’m not present
i’m sorry that i forget to text back
i’m sorry for never DMing you that meme
i saw on instagram
i swear to everything i thought about you
i’m sorry for being such a shitty friend
i’m sorry

i hope you understand that i’ve been busy
attending my visitor who didn’t even bother
to let me know they were coming

being bipolar is an extreme sport

i never talk about this. being bipolar. because you automatically think that i’m happy one second and really angry the next. being bipolar is staying up all night researching the 3 states i’ll most likely move to, knowing the exact towns, looking at homes, calculating the money that i have/i’ll make and see if it’s worth the investment.

being bipolar is creating a thought in my head,painting a scenario, feeding it, yelling action, then yelling cut, adding another scene, taking away characters that don’t add up to the story, and finally falling asleep. but i only sleep for an hour or so at a time till my body twitches for the next fucking extremity. this next extremity is hungry for information. it’s 3 in the goddamn morning and i’m searching “cold cases” which subconsciously i know i shouldn’t do. you see, they’ll feed into my paranoia and when i’m in this extreme state, there is no stopping me, what is rationalizing?

nothing is satisfying me at this point, i’m delusional, i’ve written so many dark things on the notebook i keep on my nightstand. poems that i tell myself, maybe i’ll share them on instagram one day. now i’m thinking about instagram and my writing and i start getting angry at how the world thinks likes on instagram means success. what does success mean to me? it means quality, now i’m searching for books on being a quality writer and i’ve added all these books to my private wishlist on amazon. i already checked out these writers online but i don’t follow any of them. so i just keep writing and writing and writing, nonsense, none of it makes sense. my alarm rings at 6:50am but who needs an alarm when you’ve been up all night? my best friends text me wishing a great day. the guy who still checks on me from time to time tells me he loves me. my neighbor says good morning while he goes outside to smoke a cigarette. and no one knows that i’ve just had a manic episode and that soon i’ll isolate myself because i’m hollow now and i’m crying for no reason. i’m falling from the high.


Instagram: @chicnerdreads
Twitter: @chicnerdreads