Scribbles

I write to express, express my emotions from within

waiting until it all boils up inside of me before it overflows,

consuming the paper, I write until the pen, like my eyes,

runs dry and my hand aches, pulsing like my heart

I write words filled with meaning, words filled with none

poetry, they call it, all I see is my misery in scribbles

yet they love it, so much they call it art, art?

this must be my blue period, as i write scribbles

of heartbreak, scribbles of sorrow, scribble, scribble

yet they see beauty, in my anguish, in my thoughts

thoughts i don’t dare say out loud for they lose meaning

meaning they look for, deciphering each line

as if they knew, knew the story behind each word

slowly picking apart my thoughts, dissecting my brain

masterpiece? more like pieces of me splattered

onto an empty page, poetry?, art?. beauty?

No. Scribbles.

-Melanie S.

Self-Love, Party of One?

After having a breakup that had consumed all of me—rummaged through my body, reached my heart, and carved his aching name across it. Oh but we were both to blame, or in his case— I was to blame, ME, ME, ME and just me. After months of on and off communication that included sex and resentment, we had officially cut ties. Ah the relief, mixed with tireless tears. I had confided in my friends during these dark days, until I was hit with more misery, when I realized I had been confiding in the wrong people all along. The friends I had once considered most important were really just wolves in cute clothing.

After a cycle of shattered hearts, bad friends and just all around bad karma and vibes, I had crawled into a funk, found a snug spot to sulk in and closed myself off. Everywhere I went unhappiness found me, caught up to me quickly, as if to laugh and say hey you should’ve ran faster. I wanted to get away, I thought if I left this place of misery I could redefine myself elsewhere. But certainly that wasn’t the answer or financially possible for me, to just get up and go.

So it was time for me to get a hold of myself—to stop crying every day, and letting the wrong people control my life. It took me a while to find a place of content, of acceptance and positivity, but I did it, I released it all—anything that was no good for me. Except for pizza, there’s always pizza.

There I was, saying good riddance to anything or anyone that made me unhappy, that made me feel small, that all around just made me feel uneasy; because why should we live a life, our lives, accommodating something or someone that doesn’t make us feel good?

The hardest part for me was letting go of people. People that I have grown attachments to, that I had shared laughs and secrets with, people that I had created memories with. But ultimately, they were providing more bad than good. I always feel that a relationship, any kind of relationship, boyfriend, girlfriend, friend, best friend, family, should always have balance. It shouldn’t feel like one party is taking more from the other.

I found that I surrounded myself with people who liked to take control, and realizing I was generally flexible and easy-going, I was an easy target. They took ahold of me and I allowed it. Because I enjoy company, I was someone who absolutely hated being alone.  So it didn’t really matter to me if I was accommodating more often than them because I was just happy to be hanging out.

And I didn’t really notice the imbalance, to be honest, I did have a lot of fun times— but when they didn’t want to do something I was interested in or something I had suggested and I would ultimately concede to their plans, I began questioning the friendship. Did they really care about me as I did them? They mostly certainly did not, because after all “Danielle is always down for anything.” Yeah anything that is suitable to you, apparently.

When a good friend of mine had betrayed me in the midst of my breakup— the ultimate betrayal, a total breach in girl code that I cannot even speak of, I had lost it and my heart shrunk a few sizes smaller. I felt like bad luck had settled itself on my back, making itself comfortable and homely. Was I really stuck on this train of self-pity and if so where was the next stop off?

So I began to do little things— after kicking the bad friends to the curb, the ones that really didn’t give a shit about me. The ones that found their problems to be more of importance than mine, the ones that found the universe revolved around them and I was just one of the many in orbit. They were all gone. A series of breakups, with lovers and friends.

I realized the only way things would change, was if I took control and changed it. I had to give myself a chance— a chance to figure out who I am and what I like. I had lived amongst other people’s enjoyment for too long, I wasn’t quite sure how to find my own. What do I like?

How was that such a hard question? I felt like I didn’t deserve happiness and that was the first step, recognizing that I did, we all do. I had beaten myself up for so long there were too many scars within, so I let go of a lot of anger– I acknowledged it, I wasn’t going to let it eat at me. I reminded myself that it is in the past now and that I can forgive, for all that I was no longer in control of, for all that was behind me. And I began to ease up a little on myself. You’re gonna be okay.

   I began writing more, oh how I had not been writing, I had forgotten how much it was within me all along. I bought myself new blankets! Yes new blankets, to rid of the previous sheets that reek of past lovers. I bought blankets that were bright, a beautiful yellow, mixed with light grey and white. I decorated my shelf with a string of lights. I figured since I couldn’t find the light, I’d bring the damn thing to me. I got flowers and candles. I went on bike rides and painted. I read books that I wanted to read and watched movies I never got to watch. I stopped listening to sad songs and stopped watching Greys Anatomy— if they kill off one more person!

I was pushing the sadness out! You are not allowed here anymore, please leave. I was taking control. Granted I was spending more time alone– my chance of self-discovery and self-love, so much so, that I began to crave it! Me time, it is almost required at this point. I felt myself thinking clearer, reflecting on all that had happened and finding where I have grown.

I was thinking positive and stopped allowing myself to worry about too many things at once. And that little guy bad luck? Well there’s always a chance of running into him again, but for a while he hasn’t been on my back.

I was scared, I am scared, but I’m happy. I’m happy and I’m scared. I’m scared about the future, but I’ve been giving me a chance. I’m hopeful and excited and positive of all that will come. And that’s all you can really do, is give you a chance, a chance at self-love and self-growth.

with love,

Danielle Sheehan

Letter to My Parents

“I’m trying to tell you how I feel.” She screamed.

“You’re overreacting.” Her mom responded.

“Overreacting? This is what I’m talking about; this is exactly what I try to tell you. You’re impossible to talk to.”

“What? I hear you.”

“Do you really hear me?” She said as she walked away.

She went into her room and shoved her head into her pillow to cry, screaming inside the cotton filled case. She decided to shower and let the warm water wash away the tears. She figured she could cry and yearn all she wanted in there without anyone bothering her.

She un-dressed; her naked body stepping into the dripping hot water. She crouched down so that her butt hit the cold tile of her shower, the palms of her hands pressed into her eyes as she wept. Her body convulsed in agony with uncontrollable tears.

She let the rest of her body collapse onto the floor, until the tears subsided. She reached a point where she was no longer crying, but left somehow unable to move. Her body sat, frozen, the steam of the hot water rising around her. She was all out of tears at the moment; all she could do was stare. She watched the steam bounce between the wall and the sliding glass door of the bathtub.

Her eyes found the razor that was lying at the corner of the tiled floor. She looked at the razor and back at her wrist; her skinny, dainty, smooth wrists. How lovely and how untouched, she thought, staring at the blue veins pushing out from behind her skin.

She picked it up and brushed it against her skin, lightly. She pushed out the blade and held it in her hand. She cried some more, it felt like all of her was flooding out.

Her body ached, it felt as though her insides were filled with broken pieces stabbing to be let out. She clutched her stomach in the midst of her ceaseless cries.

She looked back down at the blade and back at her wrist, her eyes dancing between both.

She stood up and stepped out of her shower, wrapping herself with a towel. She walked back to her room and jotted down a few things on a piece of paper that she had ripped out from a notebook.

The hot water still running.

She put the pen down and walked back to the bathroom, stepping back in and returning to her previous position.

She picked up the blade once more and took a deep breath.

And on her desk was a piece of paper that read:

Letter to my parents,

I was in pain,

And you didn’t hear me.

No one could.

The water continued to drip.

– Danielle Sheehan


If you or anyone you know are feeling, sad, lost or confused, please know that there is always someone who cares and wants to hear you. There is always someone who can relate, so please seek help to US, or ANYONE you know; you can even visit http://www.loveisrespect.org/ for guidance, advice or just simply somewhere to relate. Stay positive and spread happiness, always.