My story isn’t done
Because I wrote the words “The End.”

My life is a neverending series of sequels
Each with varying quality.

My story isn’t sad
Because I cried in the middle of it.

Nor is it a funny one
Because I laughed two chapters ago.

My story isn’t published
Because those who know how it goes read it as it is written.

Others get excerpts
But I will never be for sale.

She wore stilts to seem on top of the world
She wore long sleeves to hide her insecurities
She wore a mask to hide her face
And kept her hair long to hide the line
Where plastic met skin

When she takes it all off she sees someone she knows
And realizes how much she envies her stranger
So she tries to become them again,
But she can’t get escape from the way the mask makes it hard to see,
From the way the stilts stab the soles of her feet
From the way the skintight clothes won’t let her breathe.

She
Can’t
Breathe

So she suffocates to please the people she hates,
Saying things like,
“When I’m skinny enough,
When I’m popular enough,
When I’m good enough,
I’ll stop.”
But she is never good enough for the one person she hates the most.

She hides her paper as she confesses her loathing
So that no one can see her graphite tears.
She wants someone to ask “Are you okay?”
So that she can cry to someone other than the journals she’s been documenting her self-destruction on for months.
But of course,
When someone does ask,
She puts on her mask and says,
“I’m fine.”

I write my best poems when I’m PMSing
Because my emotions are on high
And I
Have an attitude
Like, “**** it!”
So I don’t overthink
The words
And also
Because when you’re lying in bed
With cramps
You have about two other options:
Watch videos
Draw
And both of those get old
After a while
So I write poems instead

Today I wrote a poem
It took me five minutes
It was short,
A little choppy,
And pretty irrational,
But people really seemed to like it.
It got so many comments
And an encouraging amount of favorites.

So I decided to write another one.

This one took me two days
I poured my heart and soul into it,
And then set it free to start it’s life of internet fame
Only this time,
The poem got two likes
And no comments.

I guess people don’t like looking at my soul
That’s okay.
I’ll keep putting it on display anyway
Because maybe someone will like it
And then maybe they’ll comment on it

I don’t like waiting, but I will
Because I know that souls are hard to look at
When I take five minutes
To jot down a thought,
It’s so simple
But my heart and soul are much more complicated.

So take your time
Like it or don’t
But I’ll be happy, because
The most genuine form of writing is when you write to yourself.

I’m scared
My fears swim around me like sharks
I’m bleeding
They can smell it.

I worry so much
That I start to worry about worrying
Why am I so afraid?

It comes and it goes,
But when it’s here,
I can’t seem to figure out,
Am I okay?

Do I need to tell someone?
Is there something wrong with me?
Will I be okay?

When I want it to go away,
Those times when I’m smiling
And pretending like everything is okay,
Is it?

Am I okay?