something no one knows
I have synesthesia.
My alphabet has colors. Sounds and voices and names has texture and color. I see colors and shapes and pictures when I listen to music, as well as taste and smell different flavors and scents depending on the song. It’s helpful for memorizing, as I have lots of associations. It’s fun to be colorful, but it can also be confusing at times.
I actually have tried explaining it to my family, but they think I’m weird, so I didn’t bring it up again. I met another person with synesthesia for the first time, and now we’re really good friends.
So, I guess if anyone wants to know what colors I see for their name, you can drop your name in the comments and I’ll let you know.
i try to tell my mother,
only when i open my mouth to speak
my voice does not comply
because my brain won’t let her
this is going to break her
i cannot watch her blame herself
or shed the tears that come with
learning that your child's
innocence was stolen from someone
you were supposed to trust,
at such a young age
i cannot explain what he did
to me when no one was around
to a courtroom where
my family will sit and listen, i
am not strong enough and it has
been killing a part of me
this has been my secret for far
too long and with each year that
passes, i get more and more guilty
that there is only this one secret
that i have not told my mother
who knows absolutely everything else
will i ever have the strength?
no one knows
I’m afraid of being a burden
I’ve never really said it aloud
I don’t want to be that person that’s only invited because they’re pitied
I don’t want to be that person that’s jokingly gossiped about when they leave
I’m cautious of my actions, scared they will ruin everything.
Im afraid of being compared
yet all I do is compare myself to others
I’m not good enough
Not pretty enough
Not smart enough
There’s nothing I’m good at
Look at her.
I wish I was her.
No one knows
I’m scared of being outcasted
Being left alone with no one to talk to
I thought no one realized the truth behind my joking words.
My essay was terrible. I’m the worst dancer here. I’m not even gonna pass the exam
But they did
They knew when I said it with a laugh afterwards I really was saying the truth. I had no confidence in myself.
Yet no one knew
I was scared of failing.
of being compared.
of being a burden.
I was scared I would be alone.
No one knows
When I'm anxious, I press my fingers into my palms exactly five times. Five is good number, and so is three and ten and twelve. Every time I read something (every single time), I read it through three times. If this gets overwhelming, I start over so that I read it exactly six times. Usually at this point I've read it so many times I've forgotten what I've read, so I do it again. Eventually the words don't mean anything.
When I'm anxious, I touch things a certain number of times. Three is again the number of choice. This usually happens when I'm about to leave an item. I get anxious that it won't stay put, or something - I'm not really sure. I get anxious about leaving it, having it out of sight where I can't obsessively keep an eye on it. Three times, then two more if I'm extra anxious.
When I'm anxious, I repeat words in my head over and over until they lose meaning. When someone says something important, or something nice about me, I can't really believe it, so I feel the need to repeat it to myself. I usually repeat each sentence five times. When that gets overwhelming, and it starts to lose meaning, I repeat it twelve times.
I'm not sure why three, five and twelve are my go-to numbers. I thought once it was Biblical but I know nothing about the Bible, so who knows where I got these numbers from. They feel 'safe.'
My safety lies in numbers. This is something no one knows about me. When I'm anxious, I'll start to press my fingers into my palms.
One, two, three, four, five.
They have no idea.
perhaps it’s something of a norm
i talk to myself -
in my head, of course,
and i go on hour-long (sometimes even longer)
what i would say
to you or you or you
and then i rewind and
scrap it all, begin again.
perhaps it's something of a
norm, something of a
usual, general, typical, thing,
and maybe even my 'why's are
something of the norm, the
usual, general, typical, 'why' -
(except / but / though / etc.) it ea a a a a a a a ases the
anxiety within; me telling myself
exactly what i'd tell you
if i had the courage, or the words,
or the time, or the opportunity -
a place to be real and break it all d o w n
where no one else can see and no one else can
tell me how to pronounce caligraphic or catatatatatastrophe
and no one else can tell me that my words aren't good enough, or
that i'm being a bit too much 'me' (but would it mean anything to)
(know that i do it to myself in all of the places where you might tell me these things)
and it means something - it fulfils a 'dEsIrE' within me to tell you - to say to you
all the things i wish i really could (if i had the courage, the words, the time,)
(the opportunity), even if i never actually end up telling you how
much i'm really hurting or how much i really love you or why
i say or do or think the things i do, for some reason, it is
enough to tell myself the things i wish i could tell you
and keep them hidden inside (for my basement)
(tapes; the hype, twenty one pilots) myself
and then there's also the thing that i really like to pause.
(you heard me pause, didn't you?)
both in my head, in my
speech, and in my
i really like
Your Feelings Are Valid
I was diagnosed with ADHD
The other side of the coin is Depression
All my family has ever known me as was happy-go-lucky
With a painful attention span and bouncing grades
It's only recent I've mentioned depression
They've seen it in the way I move so slowly
Even an elderly couple can walk down to the other side of the store
Before I can even get two cucumbers bagged and in the cart
Despite all the symptoms and tell tales
Of all the scarred tissues and red eyes
Of all the white lies and sleepless nights
I mention depression, and in two lies one truth,
they get the truth wrong
I was diagnosed with ADHD
while depression lingered underneath
scratching at the surface of my mind
until enough was enough
materializing into words but falling on death ears
All my parents know is that ADHD causes a lack of focus,
or hyperfocus until everything is blinded by one thing
falling and washing away with the tides
Only one survivor and my teachers tell me I'm not trying hard enough
I had bullies growing up
I had strict parents growing up
I was tired of growing up
I didn't want to grow up
I couldn't see myself past 12, then 16, then 18, then 20
I gave up on counting the years when they didn't end
ADHD and depression doesn't end
It changes me profoundly
Whoever I was before is dead
They don't understand
My parents still search for that little girl
Who was all smiles
She was buried by the mental illness
To them, this seems impossible
That this could never happen to me
So I crack a little more inside
I'm still figuring myself out
The visits to the psychiatrist never helped
Despite this, I cry and sleep with my kitten in my arms
The purring of my dear pet eases my mind
The feeling of something alive cures my apathy
For only a second, but a second is enough to change my mind
Thinking maybe I want to see the sun rise tomorrow
The paradox of an open book
I've taken my shelter in the books since I was young and dreamed of adventure.
Wrote down my thoughts in the alpine abditory, so I could seal them in a far-off land.
Yet, here's the thing about my story: you'll never see it all.
Yes, you may read the story, the writing in blood-red ink on the wall.
Or feel the quiet beat of my heart within a page.
Maybe feel the war within, upon the thunderous rage.
And once the story is over, you'll quietly think to yourself.
'interesting' without a glance and return me to the shelf.
But I'll tell you when you meet me, if only for a minute or two,
You'll begin to see something different, only given unto you.
For the people, they say, she's an enigma, complicated as a tapestry spun,
but darling, no, I'm just a lot of simple people, all rolled into one.
Where was this within your story? They asked, reasoning that I was an open book.
Just becuase you read my story, I reply, does not mean you got the whole look.
They'll ask, where was this before? I hadn't seen the hidden signs.
I shake my head. Here's the thing, my story is in between the lines.
#poetry #writing #thoughts #lines #paradox #challenge#prose #secret #deepest #books #stories
The scars on my left arm are not from falling on metel like I always tell people. No, they are memories of a dark time. No one knows and even if I explained, no one would care, because I am just me and the scars are just scars. But if you looked close enough maybe you would see that I am trying so hard to love myself and even if the scars will never leave, I will become a new person and I won't let those memories be my fall.
A Pathetic Little Pillow
I sleep upon a pillow
That I’ve had since I was six
It was fluffy, full of feathers
Now it is flat, with pokey sticks
It weighs more than its supposed to
As the feathers have condensed
I’ve tried so many others
It just does not make sense
I wake up and my neck hurts
But I just cannot let go
My husband thinks it’s crazy
But he just doesn’t know
A pathetic little pillow-
I know it isn’t right
But if I do not have it
I will not sleep at night