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About alaska

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  1. I regret, not seeing this at the time. I've recovered up to a healthy weight, although it's a constant, daily struggle. I wrote on the slam during the worst parts of my disorder, and i appreciate everyone who supported me and i probably wouldn't be recovered at this time if I'd never been part of this community.
  2. every word against my abusers character is still shards of broken glass within my throat hot wet blood slick and thick drip into pages of books i'm trying to put down, set to rest, put to bed, i am kin with the alien spacecraft hovering, dull and strange, pockmarked with memories of another world, marred with bullet holes,clouds gather at the edge of my vision, inside my greedy thankless throat they precipitate needlessly, desperatelyplastic keepsakes, gifts, tear me open at the seam, click against my bones foreign and slick in my bloodstreammy thoughts are junk mail tossed aside but relentless and needy i feel strange and sick and I would like to leave, now, please
  3. thorn

    you gave me a handful of thorns and demanded i construct a flower. i scavenged for wilted petals and dead leaves and used duct tape and super glue to piece together something that was only a parody of beauty. thorns cut. they scratch, they poke, they sting there is nothing beautiful in something that hurts you. (well,,, im trying to write again haha)
  4. full-stop. (PTSD and abuse tw)

    last night i woke up in a blind panic because i forgot i was in my own bed i felt myself in his again, felt his hands around my neck- and this is why i do not sleep anymore. exhaustion is a small price to pay for a fleeting feeling of safety in a world where every word and step i take is dangerous. my world is full of sharp edges and sirens, bright lights and warning signs. is this safe? am i safe? last time i heard his pet name for me i curled up on the floor and did not get up until i was my me again, my body is my temple cracked pillars supporting crumbling facades self care is a futile attempt at recovering something that is not mine and that is far too broken to be fixed. i feel like an anchor thrown overboard and sinking heavy dead weight which is funny because i am most scared of drowning water on me on my tongue in my hair on my skin sends me into a curl-cry-cant-breathe-do-not-touch-me until everything is so empty, i am his alice with her river of tears my hurt is so big that magic mushrooms can no longer shrink it and start, stop, breathe. breathe until my lungs are empty, full, tangible, until i am real again and feel the ache of holding my breath. wait that is not my breath i am holding it is my trauma, laid neat and clean in an evidence locker, organized and numbered in order of importance on a police report, in a shiny new complex-ptsd diagnosis that glows in the dark and does 17 various things like, start, stop. i am laid out on an operating table cold and bare gutted and dissected, when they tell me what happened to me like i do not already know when they whisper soft under breath that i still feel i am not breathing what happened to me, gossip in pastel tones, low-key, on the down-low i am not my own, i am empty and owned. full-stop. (wow that felt,,,, like feeling something again)
  5. i don't write anymore because my words are twisted choked and strangled. i thought things could not get worse for me until they did my pen is rusted, my mind dusty and covered in cobwebs. what am i supposed to say when something so bad has happened to me, and i have become a shell of a human, depersonalized, desensitized. there are no flowers in my speech, only thorns. when someone hurts you until there is nothing left, letters twist and break and shatter. i miss myself.
  6. intro things :D

    hello i am alaska, i used to post on the slam as collette and lee i believe. ive recently taken up mixed media journaling using pictures as a base to small lines of poetry. i dont tend to write anymore, but i guess i probably should