me.


she doesn't like how I look at others
or how my lips pronounce anyone else's name
she doesn't like how 'everyone wants me' like she does
she doesn't like my style
she doesn't like my sincerity

my eyes, lips, and nose?
oh, of course she doesn't like that.

nor do i

I don't like how I look at others
I don't like how I pronounce anyone's name other than hers
I don't like how she doesn't want me
I don't like my style
I don't like my 'sincerity'

my eyes, lips, nose?
yuck.

but I'm honestly starting to wonder

which one of us is in denial.

If death were to be a friend, we'd be sitting together drinking hot chocolate and having marshmallows in our pink sleepwear and pink blankets.
If death had to be a mother, it would be scolding and correcting my ways of doing things.
If death were to be a sister, we would be fighting on who looks prettier today.
If death were to be a crush I had, I'd be smiling alone each time I think of it and saving cute lil pictures of it.
If death were to be my roommate, we'd share past experiences during late nights and how strong we should stick together as a unit.
If death were to be school, **** I'd be running every single second of my life from that bully in school or the lessons that just drain your energy including the liquid that surrounds your eyeballs.
If death were to be sports, I'd be doing what I love and keeping fit.
But death is not any of that.
Death is what rips your soul away from you.
Death is what seizes you from your family and friends.
Death is what makes people forget about your existence in this world.
Death is what makes you think twice before making either that one final big move, or the dumbest and biggest mistake of your life.
Hence death is not pretty.
It is a lesson that should teach many that if their destinies have not been fulfilled, then their purposes have not been served,

I hate it
I hate the way that everyone looks at me
they way they laugh and mock
the way their voices sound;
it's so dreadful;
so filled with negative and hate.
sometimes I contemplate ending it.
just so I don't have to hear them;
just so I don't have to think.
but I know it's not worth it.
"it all gets better"
.. right?
that's what they all say as they hand you prescriptions,
as they send you off for seven hours to hear nonsense
but, "it all gets better"
so what does it matter?

mum asks
why you show your poems to strangers
but not to me?

mum doesn't know
poetry is light
but it can also be darkness
sometimes it is mostly darkness
and poetry is history
and experiences
and things you want to happen
and things you don't want to see

poetry isn't always
chocolate-filled with a coat of sugar
it isn't always pretty metaphors
and nice descriptions of nice feelings

mum doesn't know
my poems can turn a little darker
twisted just like my mind

and she doesn't know
the way I love
or the way I hate
and she would surely ask
and she would surely know who and why and what
and strangers don't know
who the hell I am talking about
and they don't care
as long as they read a good piece

mum asks

I don't reply.