Hi,I'm sincerelyW.W! I come on here every now and then and post. I have not posted that much and not many people see my work. I'm not very good but I enjoy getting to post for the few people that read my work. I've mostly posted ‘poems’ there… pretty bad… but that's besides the point. I've kind of stopped writing in this way, this format, whatever you want to call it. Instead I kind of just write down my thoughts and whatever I feel. I want the people who read my work to be able to relate to it. Think ‘hey i totally get where they're coming from!’ So in order to do that, i'm going to start taking the streams of conscience i write and heavily water them down. Some may seem like poems so are just thoughts or stories.

You can come here anytime! You can read my work, message me, if you ever need to vent you can even do that here! I want everyone to feel welcome and appreciated. Because, well, you are.

If you are reading this you have no idea how grateful I am that you have found me/come here. I hope you stick around! Thank you for all the kind comments you have given and any constructive criticism! I appreciate you all so much and thank you!

<3

Does he hate me?  
Are they mad at me?  
What have I done?  
What have I done to make you mad?  
What can I do to fix it?  
Can I fix it?  
Will you let me?  
Can I help?  
You want to be left alone?  
You don't want to be around me?  
They do hate me.  
What do I do?  
How can I fix this?  
Please don't leave.  
Please don't.  
Don't go.  
Let me make it up to you.  
Somehow.  
Please?  
Talk to me.  
Please?  
Don't leave me like this.  
Please don't.  
I know I'm annoying.  
I know.  
I can't help it.  
Oh.  
You don't want me around.  
Do you not care?  
Do you not see how this hurts me?  
Do you not see my pain?

There are bones in the wood;
cracking, groaning, shattering.
The skeleton of what could
Have
            Been

There are bones in the wood;
whistling, wailing, whispering.
The skeleton is not pure—not good
It
            Still
                        Has
           ­                         Flesh

Some days, I avoid the mirror,
as if its glass might speak.
As if it might tell me all the things
I already whisper to myself.

I tug at fabric, shift my stance,
try to fit into spaces
that never seem meant for me.
Like I’m always too much, or not enough.

I trace the outlines of who I wish I was,
sketching softness into strength,
erasing the parts I’ve learned to hide,
as if beauty is something I have to earn.

But I am not a mistake,
not a problem to be solved.
I am a story still being written,
a masterpiece still in progress.

i’d rather write about the freckles on your back than think about all of the ways in which you quite possibly don’t love me.

i feel sick at the very thought of you picking me apart the way you did; fingers grabbing and stroking in a catastrophic symphony of skin and vulnerability.

let’s read between each other’s lines; share my sentences and punctuate my paragraphs with your mouth; because i can breathe easier on the mornings where i wake up wrapped around you.

because my moods change like the ******* seasons and the spinning in my head doesn’t want to stop.
                                         you tell me that i should probably get a therapist because no one that thinks about all the ways in which they could **** themselves has an ounce of mental stability.
                                          i tell you that i have been to four.
                                          names faded into a blur with hazy snippets of conversation remaining.
20mg.
                    30mg.
you tell me that trust issues and scars aren’t endearing and i tell you that neither is counting up the potential number of pills needed to dissolve your body into the living room carpet.

let me sink inside your skin and make a home in your flesh;
i tell you about the nights where i lay awake in the bath turning the water red.
                       tragic, isn’t it.

you tell me that this isn’t how my head should work and i tell you that i already know. everything you could possibly tell me i already know.
i know that 400 calories a day isn’t normal, and my hands shouldn’t shake all the time.
                                             i know.
please let me stitch myself into you, even just for a while; until i no longer feel dizzy and my world stops spinning.
i don’t need you to tell me that it will be okay, because honestly i don’t think it will be and, that in itself, is okay.
                                                                ­                 let me stitch myself into you, because my own skin can’t take it anymore.

let me call you back when my voice stops wobbling and my vision straightens out, but honestly, i’m terrified that it never will. what if this is it. headaches and tears and shaking and blood.
                                             and the debilitating, gut-wrenching feeling of pure and euphoric emptiness.

                                              tragic, isn’t it.

The whirlpool of emotions pulls me under,
and I am tired of treading water
I am tired of trying to stay afloat
I am just a girl who wonders of what ifs
I am just a girl who feels too much,

who knows where you are hurt,
even when you haven’t said it out loud
Maybe if I learned to hold myself a little gently,
it wouldn’t ache this way
Maybe happiness isn’t built from sadness,

no matter how familiar it feels
I am just a girl who wants a quiet place,
to love and be loved,
without asking for it
I am just a girl, still searching