I wrote this poem listening to a playlist I made on Spotify called ‘fuck delweeknd’ and… thats it.
repeating the aesthetic phrases over and over, listening to Lana Del Rey more than I ever intended to. Because only a sadgirl like that bitch can write some verses that get it right in these moments.
I’m a prisoner to my addiction, to my decisions… but I’m not bound. I’m holding the rope together and although it’s burning my palms I fear the cold more than the injury that’s being inflicted.
I’m supposed to wait here. I’m always waiting here. Someone told me to wait here once, but I can never recall who that person was. They must have been important.
Every time I come to I’m faced with someone new— a stranger of sorts that I’ll find too much comfort in. Some tell me to let go of the rope. Some tell me to let go.
Some tell me to grasp even tighter and I’m afraid the latter is the only influence I adhere to.
My addiction, my decision.
Thinking this is some sort of fate I deserve. That if I grasp, and wince, and burn… some sort of unimaginable debt will slowly be payed off. It’s a burden kind of thing.
Other days I’m somewhere altogether else, bathed in dark patterns, silk, models. It’s in those times that I remember… there is no rope, no burning. There’s only ever been a pull to some vantablack vortex that I lead myself to completely independently.
In those times, I vow to forget my preprogrammed route, but still, my steps are not mistaken and remain the same.
Will I ever stop grabbing at what isn’t being offered to me?
Here I am, fabricating a sort of hellish virtual world that others would die to be rid of. How absolutely disgusting.
My disgusting life is what leads me back.
My addiction, my decisions.
Keep holding.
still ill - mental health mecca 