and i may not be the first one who've held your hand on a late night walk nor my name wasn't the first one you've carved on a tree, but i just want to be the one you can't stop thinking about when drinking your strong coffee on a quiet Saturday morning 'cause it feels like you're finally home

i.
cry it out. a lot.
until you don’t have any tears left in your body.
until the pain makes your body and your emotions numb.
until you feel empty inside,
lying on the floor, wondering why there’s a stain on the ceiling.

ii.
sleep. a lot.
you’ll reach for their body in your bed to bring them closer,
but realize there’s nothing more than the cold mattress and the lonely blanket.
it won’t feel warm after a while.
it’s alright.

iii.
go out. a lot.
feel the coldness of the night wind on your red cheeks.
feel the warmness of the shots of ***** in your throat.
being surrounded by friends has never felt so essential.
they’re the special ones, the golden ones.
keep them close.

iv.
wait. a lot.
nothing will feel right for a while.
sometimes everything will feel better.
and then it’ll all suddenly come back in waves.
it’s alright.
it takes time to become whole again.

you were the first person
whose hands held her heart
but love
she bled to death
and not even
a dose
of your unfaithful *******
could heal
her burst.

he looked at me
like no other
as if he could see
the stars in my eyes
the other guys saw me
as a piece of meat
but he looked at me
with love in his eyes

----
1. no beauty

was it beautiful?
like sitting at a desk
riddled with indents from
keeping the scissors away from skin
rocking back and forth
with only one thing circling
through an addled mind
the overwhelming urge to die
feeling ready to write that final
chapter on a life barely lived

was it beautiful?
forty pills that seemed like
enough at the time
choked down with soda water
and so many built up tears
feeling the rot of depression
absorbing the medicine that was
supposed to make things better
*******

was it beautiful?
regretting waking up hours later
younger sibling in the next room
noticing the stumble
the swearing that came from
feeling organs clench and shatter
but nothing coming up

was it beautiful?
admitting to taking so many pills
tongue feeling shredded by the words
being asked to stay awake
but only feeling so much anger
at having failed
at waking up again
at still being alive

was it beautiful?
three psych wards
every time a voluntary check in
unable to stay safe
healing scars
bashing limbs against every hard surface
ripping open old wounds
both inside and out
there is nothing beautiful
in self destruction

2. no romance

was it romantic?
hospital beds and an iv
in the back of a shaking hand
monitored bathroom breaks
too many to count while a body
too young to feel so old
purged itself of so many toxins

was it romantic?
fingernails chewed down to nothing
ragged cuticles
raw and ****** knuckles
because those hurt just a little bit less
than constantly pulling open
scabbed over splits in
gnawed on lips

was it romantic?
looking for love to give to others
not leaving enough behind to keep
not caring about that
too busy wanting to go home
please fix this
make the hurt go away
make everything shiny and new again

was it romantic?
unable to find respite
from the mental onslaught
in the unmarred arms of another
because illness and depression
do not care about
kissing scars to heal them
or boxes of chocolate
or roses
or whispered “i love you”s
because life is not a
teen romance novel

was it romantic?
wanting to die
even while sitting next to
that person that made things
not hurt so bad
and feeling guilty about fresh cuts
fresh bruises
burn marks that could be explained
away as accidents

was it romantic?
mass media certainly seems to think so
here’s looking at you
john green and jay asher
because why should people have
struggles if they can’t be candy-coated
and wrapped up in neat little bows
with complementary
packets of tissues on the side

was it romantic?
smelling of blood
and sweat from so many nightmares and terrors
trembling and shaking
racked by guilt and anxiety
waiting for an ulcer
waiting for something to happen
to make it seem worthwhile
because in mental illness and trauma
there is no prince
no princess
no damsel in distress
no disney movie happy ending
there is no romance
in wanting
to constantly die