Writing

On My Bad Days, a poem

I’m writing this because I feel like it needs to be written down somewhere. Hopefully, I can perform this live. Preferably on a good day.

On My Bad Days
Eri Santos

I want to share with you what my bad days are like because everyone asks “Are you okay?” but nobody stays around long enough to hear the answer.

On my bad days, I can pinpoint the exact moment where everything will fall. I can tell you the exact words that push me into the void – the void which I try so desperately to escape.

On my bad days, when you say “Good luck with your art!”
I hear “Your days are numbered. I’m going to beat you at your own game.” But there is no game here. This isn’t a game.

On my bad days, when you say “Maybe you should try this instead…”
I hear “You’re so stupid that you can’t even see how stupid you really are.”

On my bad days, when you say “You’re being too hard on yourself.”
I hear “Are you even trying?”

On my bad days, when you say “You’re going to be okay.”
I hear “Maybe tomorrow, you should consider not waking up. Maybe then it’ll be better.”

On my bad days, every compliment is an assault to the senses. Every good word is a threat. Every smile is a knife, thrusting into my spine. But I don’t feel a thing.

On my bad days, I want to rip out every last one of my veins but I don’t.

On my bad days, music with words is too much. Instrumentals with strong percussion lines makes me want to throw something. Dramatic soundtracks grip my heart’s chambers like a vice.

On my bad days, a watchful eye feels like the heat of a thousand sun burning into my soul. Every kindness feels like the harshest look – but then again, nobody judges me harder than I do.

On my bad days, everything is screaming and painful. Everything is silent and numb. It’s both of those things at the same time.

On my bad days, it gets harder to do the things I don’t even have to think about. It’s hard to get out of bed. It’s hard to care about how I look. It’s hard to eat and drink. It’s hard to do these things because I don’t feel like I deserve them.

On my bad days, I push weakly against the shadows and screams. I pretend to function. I fake being okay until I believe it. Spoiler alert: I almost never believe it. But I try.

On my bad days, I go to bed – hoping a good day comes when I wake up and try again.


Sorry if my poems haven’t been too cheerful. I’m trying.

Hope you’re having a great day and I’ll catch you in the next one.

xx,
Eri 🙂

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