For Ava

TW: Contains mentions of mental health, anorexia, suicide and instability

March 28

5:09:37 AM 

I don't think I should be here. I ponder it often, why I am even here. It’s not like I think I would be better off dead or any of that shit, I just don't know if I belong here. Sometimes, instead of seeing the ceiling above my bed at night, I see versions of myself, all jumbled in with the sticky glow in the dark stars I still haven’t taken down since my sleepover birthday party when I was eight. I see myself if I was black, maybe shorter, blonder, maybe if I was gay. I see myself painted and scrap-booked from thousands of people I’ve looked at and wished to be. The more athletic ones, the richer ones, the ones that live in California. 

Fucked up collages. 

They dance in front of me now. 

March 31

3:49:07 AM 

I wish I could put into words for someone else what it looks like inside my mind. The layers and pathways pulsing with neon lights and depression-inspired raps written by some high school kid who’s probably gone by no. 

I wish I could describe the tunnels and endless, twisting loops filled with brighter places and magic and versions of my own gravestone with something inspiring that has an eerie wonder to it like “this world never was enough for her” engraved in moss. Once again, I don’t want to die. I’ve never even thought of hurting myself, but I’m just confused as to why I’m right here. And what happens now. If only someone could see the rivets and canals overflowing with expectations and rules and mental illness. 

I wonder if I tried explaining it in poem. 

April 4

10:31:58 PM 

I don’t want to be a fucking disappointment. 

April 6

1:43:22 AM

This world is insane. I used to think it was broken but beautiful, like shards of sparkly glass. But no, it’s straight up broken like a heart, still bloody and pulsing. When I say I don’t want to go to school tomorrow, I feel like a brat. A stuck up, spoiled, brat. I still have a school to go to, I still have legs to carry me from the sour smelling cafeteria to gym class. I still have a family who acknowledges me as we eat boxed mac and cheese at a real dinner table. 

Yet I still don’t want to face tomorrow. 

April 7

4:18:39 AM

What am I supposed to tell myself when I ask if I’m okay? Yes? Cause that’s just not true. Lies and nightmares twist and curl through my head like the smoke of a cheap cigarette every day. I don’t want to say I’m depressed. I’m fucking afraid of suicide and yet I can’t say I am okay because everyday is so far from it. If I painted a picture or yes, would I even be in it? Or would it just be color, smeared and layered to cover up the bullet wound? There was a girl at school who left us all for a false promise. 

Ava. 

She took her own life at thirteen and I’m scared now. 

How many promises have I believed that have been false? How many lies have I told myself and how far would I go to make them true? 

If I’m not careful, I might just wander off the edge of the knife. 

April 14

11:23:41 PM 

I made it. I did it. I made it through another day. Are you proud of me? Did you even notice? 

Cause I did. 

April 16

2:57:36 AM 

I’ve always been mesmerized by how small we are. How small the tiny night-light I’m watching blink out right now is in the universe. My science classroom smells like vinegar and the girl in front of me’s vape. But if I stood outside the door, I wouldn’t smell anything. Is that how this all works? Unless you make a big enough explosion to rock the planet will anyone notice you’re there? My therapist recommends zooming out when I’m too anxious to eat. It works for a bit, but I just don’t know what to do when I get to space. 

April 19

7:09:15 PM 

I hate it when I’m proud of myself but then life comes back into focus. The fact that I have to eat tomorrow, the fact that I have to be better in order to make any of this even count. The sound of frogs makes me happy, but it means I have to go to sleep and then face tomorrow. I liked my outfit today, but I wonder if anyone else though that or if they just though I looked stupid and basic. Positivity is like those giant sugar sprinkles you sometimes put on blueberry muffins. They’re beautiful, but when tested under pressure half of them disappear like they weren’t even there in the first place. My grandpa only likes that kind of sprinkles, we used to put them on mini donuts when I was younger. We only ever had the color blue. We’d also fight over who got to lick the last bit of frosting from the beaters when we helped make brownies, or who got the first, warmest cinnamon twist when grandma would make the puff pastry ones that had a scent that always made the whole house just smell real. It’s funny how things change because now I’m too scared to eat any of those things I loved and I don’t even know if he still likes donuts. 

Maybe I should call and ask. 

April 21

12:23:59 AM 

Maybe tomorrow it’ll all make sense. Maybe I won’t be afraid of tiny sugar crystal donuts or laying in the night air listening to frogs as my best friend tells a story. Maybe I won’t be afraid of hurting myself or never being enough. 

Maybe tomorrow it’ll be better. 

For now I’ll try and block out all the other me’s twirling through my mind. For now, I’ll just focus on the flickering nightlight and fail to go to sleep.