Untitled Poem

Written roughly in Jan/Feb 2015

Waking up, too early

slightly disoriented,
and I want it to all be
a hoax.
I don’t want you to
be dead.

Just like I never wanted
the others to be really

by Terrah Short



I have used every ounce of my energy to get up, feed myself, do my homework, go to class, go to work, but showering seems daunting.

Why is this task, one so simple, causing me so much trouble?

Is it because I’m disgusted by my naked body?
Yes. That could be part of it.
I am.

But I am also disgusted by my ability to just not shower, go be physically how I mentally feel about myself.

It’s also reflected in the disarray of my room.

It all makes me feel– worthless.

It feeds the thoughts that I will be alone because I am so disgusting.


My self-hatred always comes in tow with my depression and anxiety.

I don’t know how to end this post

Mom, stop, you’re dead

I didn’t have this type of dream last night, but mom, you have to stop coming into my dreams the way you do. It is always about how you weren’t really dead. You come back, you’re trying to be my mom, you put the effort in, in my dreams.
It isn’t fair. You need to stop. You need to stop.
You’re dead.
You’re dead.
You’re dead.

Why can’t my mind understand that you aren’t coming back?
Why do I have to have these dreams where I feel like you are really, truly back. Doing all the things you said you’d do before you killed yourself?
Did you though?

We don’t know.
We can’t know.
OD? Maybe.
Accident? Maybe.
Suicide? Maybe.

Suicide is what my conclusion is.

You need to stop.
You are dead.

You can’t even stop causing me pain in death.

Poems from my attempt (and failure) to do NaPoWriMo

National Poetry Writing Month, or NaPoWriMo, is in April, and I attempted to write a poem a day. I kinda failed at it, but I did make some poems. I’m just going to put them all here with their respective dates.

Day One || 4/1/15

Thinking shortly ago of sober
The call of the bubbly offered
pulled me to the fridge
I didn’t want to resist
Free means yes,
to me,
I guess.

Day Two || 4/2/15

Romance must be dead and its
carapace has been boiled down
into ink. The newly created
fossils of what once was, archived
and re-summoned into mass
produced books.

The books drip the blood of
Murdered true romance.

Romance must be dead because
it is now a droll idiocy fawned
upon by desperates, exploited by
publishing machines hungry only
for money.

Romance is dead, but they
won’t let it die.

Day Five || 4/5/15

Where have you gone, hope?
Where has the darkness taken you?
It’s swallowed you up again and I feel like it will be a while before uncover its hiding place for you.

I don’t have time to look for you, life is getting in the way.
What’s life without daily hope?
Let’s find out because the darkness has swallowed you up again, taken you away, and left me sleepless…
And hopeless…

Where have you gone?

by Terrah Short

Time to Start Again

It feels like I’m having to rip these words from the very matter of my brain. It is painful and I’m unsure what to write because I don’t know what I want to say. Part of me doesn’t want to say a damn thing. I am too sore, too empty, too lonely… but those are all beautiful reasons to write, despite how bad those feelings are.

Not only does my brain need to be coaxed and smacked and ripped, so does my heart because it doesn’t know where it wants to go either. I think I find something it wants, but then… it doesn’t want it anymore.

I’m left completely unsatisfied, eternally. No love, no commitment; just emptiness, pain, grief.

Oh grief, so much grief…

And I feel like I’m bearing it all alone.

Thoughts of whether or not I believe in a higher power, or if I’ll force myself to for the illusion of comfort. I miss ritual, I miss stability.

I desire a person, but so it seems no person desires me, or at least hasn’t spoken up about it.

So, here I start again, putting words down, recording them for people to see.

Here I start again.

(Written off the cuff)



A windy day in Bellingham
A windy day in Bellingham