I read your message and I felt your sorrow. I shed
Tears for you at that table, in front of everyone.
It is a tragedy that someone you love is gone, but
I promise, we can help you get through it. Your friends.
Your surrogate family.
I am saddened. I mourn for you as we'll as the rest of us.
I am sorry.

-Year fifteen.

Normal girl, tall and slender. Bright eyes and developing body.
But her hands, oh... Her hands were sculpted by something else. Beautiful bones,
Long, pink nails and the skin on her palm smoother than silk.
The veins show a dull peppermint on her snowy skin.
Her thin wrist and delicate movements.

She cracks her knuckles so her sharp joints will show more.

-Year twenty three.

The life she lived previous was pressured by the pollution in the air. ****,
Drugs, and alcohol. She slouches and shivers on a warm summer day,
Huddled in a corner of her house.

Her hands show no more snow. The veins seem shriveled.
Her joints were swollen and unmovable.
Her palms are coarse from rubbing them together and her nails...
Oh, her nails were ****** and torn off. She clawed too much at her neck
As she was held down and suffocated.

-Year twenty four.

*"I am sorry." The note read.

It was a deformed hand. Bite marks on her fingertips, shriveled skin with blotches and sores.
The veins drawn over in pink scars from jagged blades and old attempts.
It was a miracle she could write at all.

She now lays in an open casket. Eyes stare at her contrasted beauty.
Her childhood friend had always loved her hands. He reconstructed them.
A shriveled old body, only twenty four years old, but seemingly ancient.

But her hands, oh... Her hands were sculpted by someone who truly loved her.
Beautiful bones,
Long and pink plastic nails. The skin on her palm made of silk.
The veins are drawn with a dull peppermint pastel on her falsely snowy skin.

He cracked her fingers so her prosthetic joints will move less.

You kissed the tears from my cheeks
Your own falling in time with mine;
Our hearts pulling, heavy and weeping.

I told you my story.
The storm and the eye in the center.

Be your own hope.
And find the one that makes it stronger.
Be your own love.
And find the one that makes it romantic.
Be your own light.
And find the one that makes it brighter.
Be your own inspiration.
And find the one that makes it into art.
Be your own determination.
And find the one that makes it happen.

Be your own fight.
And be your own victory.

It's a private thought. They are not meant to be invaded, but
They were anyway. I thought you knew what my dreams were.

Every single one, I see a pair of eyes. Sometimes blue,
Sometimes green,
Sometimes grey,
But always shimmering.

It was dark and I saw nothing else. But somehow I could feel
Hands.
Gentle hands on my bare skin.
And a breath in my ear, whispering things that only matter
When said by one voice.

I could feel something that only one person can make me truly feel.
Love, fear, and a consuming lust.
Somehow, we were floating, but felt safe. We had the confidence and grace
Of cherry blossoms in the wind.

He kissed every ligament in my spine,
Returned to my lips and eyes,
And used his skin to cover my body, only for him to see.
He played with my hair,
He sighed on my neck and breathed me in. All I could
Think was "me. He is doing this to me."
He kissed my neck, about to completely connect
And make me feel more than I ever will.

And then I woke up.

If it was known before that I have done what I have done,
I still would not be here. Any sooner, I would be gone, and later and I would have fallen apart more than I am now.
Please just leave me be.
I don't want to leave, but I want to go.
And it is all your fault.

I am the rat that escaped from all of these
Bottled diseases. The flash eating organisms that have wasted the others.
But I was unable to escape the memories, the scars,
And the aftermath. I still have the sickness; the antibiotic did not complete
It's process of healing. The caress of chemicals
Inside of my bloodstream did not satisfy the lust for life I had always suffered through.

Never have I seen a light other than the fluorescents hanging above the steel table
As they dissected my friends. They only ones I have ever seen alive.
The factory settings of their decomposition have been restarted and they erode as if
Made of dust. They basically are at this point.

The rustling of papers sickens me, recording everything the scientists see; they study us
Under a microscope. They smell of rust and sawdust, old and crippled. Cruel.
They keep us in glass boxes and torture us with everything we fear.

I'd see the smiles of betrayal
And greed in the most innocent faces.
Voices of cruelty and abuse
Echoing like music in a ballroom.
I stand in the center, surrounded by
Shadows and screams.

It's possible I could run,
But the ice of your heart
Beneath my heels keeps me
Frozen in my sorrowful doubt.

A picture on the internet told me
That I should write every day
Because it would make me stronger.
It said to write even when I couldn't
But if I couldn't then how could I?
That’s the problem.

If I don’t write every day then I become weaker.
The weaker I become, the less I write.
How can I write to get stronger when
I am already too weak to write?

Its like throwing a bird without wings and expecting it to fly.
Each time it hits the ground it is closer to dying
But it can save itself if it can just fly.
But that's the problem!

The bird becomes more jaded every day it doesn't fly
And the more jaded he is, the less he wants to.
How could he possibly save himself
If he is already dying?

Its like slamming a door in a decaying home.
The hinges creak and the wood splinters,
It comes closer to falling apart with every motion
But the people who use it only use it for their own privacy.
That’s the problem.

That door creaks and splinters every time it is closed.
Keep closing it and there will be no more door,
Just an empty space in a wall,
Another hallway.
There is only one decaying home and only a certain number of doors,
Pretty soon they will all fall apart in your hands.
It sounds like a metaphor.

I have nothing to give, nothing to say.
My words are frail. My thoughts are stray.

I wonder what will happen to me
When all is said and done.
Though if anything does happen,
It will all go wrong.

I hate to rhyme, but this is how I feel,
Just empty enough to wonder what is real.

I have nothing to give, nothing to say.
But somehow, the lingering words can make me sway.

I always say it. "Thank god."

But, here's the thing; I always thought that God would save the helpless, cure the sick and sad. And at least take the pain away.
So many things happened to me throughout my life. I was hopeless. Rumors always seemed to be about me, people lied to me, laughed at me, friends isolated me and left. I was alone at school. At home, my parents always seemed to favor my brother. I would go home, grab a snack, and do my work. Read. The entire time, my mom was drinking, watching tv and occasionally helping my brother impatiently with his homework. My father worked. And he came home late. And he drank.
And they both smoked, but at least they were 'courteous' enough to do it outside.

They did quit the alcohol and the tobacco, but still something was off. My dad lied, still drank, my mothers temper got even shorter. Scream was all she ever did. I loved school, not to learn, but to get away.
It didn't help that I had a disease in my ****** up head. It made it so I was always sad, nothing else. It soon got to be too much.
Earlier this year, April 24, 2013,
Everything was at its worst. I barely had anyone that I could trust. Two friends were there, but they didn't know about me. I was the happy, energetic, bisexual girl who wouldn't shut up. I was strong, made people happy. I was the one who didn't believe in god. If only they knew why.

He never came. I prayed for help. I wanted out. Day in and day out, my mind was on my brother and me. Our lives and how much we wanted...
No...
Needed it to get better.

I trusted him. I did, and I loved him.
Until he abandoned me.

Now, I believe in another. I dont worship, I dont pray, because I know she is with me either way. We have a connection, you see. She just knows. She is always there for anyone. People talk of miracles, and they talk of God, but only hear those stories from the liars, the fakes. Sometimes I will hear genuine stories of God helping them, and I believe them. I just think, "wow, God sure loves them. I hope that they are happy as ****, because I am sure not. "

I dont think God performs miracles. I believe tht the nameless God people speak of is an escape, a heavy fog that falls on reality. I know of so many who are clouded and ignorant because "God says so." God does nothing but hurt people, and he isnt even real. Life is. Energy, the world around us is alive, gives us life. Life herself is what performs miracles. Knowing and using the earth for what its intended for.

I did, and I was better. But still, not completely. People still lied, I was still in pain, I was still a mistake on legs. And I tried.
To all of those suicidal depression peeps of mine, you know what I mean, if not, look back at my poetry, if you know which alternate persona to look at.  
I tried. And the one time I needed God, he wasnt there. But Life, she somehow put a message into a man's head. He wanted to talk to me. And I heard the phone buzz. God cannot do that. People speak of god telling them things, and that is all. No thought other than God and his miracle. But he had no clue until a few months ago.

Thank God that this ****** up world is as it should be! But to tell the truth, I think it needs a bit less sarcasm.

How about DONT thank God because he doesnt do ****. Take it from me.

My entire life, I have been ****** over. My entire life I have hoped and prayed and needed something to happen. My entire life, or since I can remember, I have contemplated suicide, and the one time it might have happened, he wasnt there. But, somehow, you saved me. But the God that you believe in, had no part in it.

How do you remember me?
Am I the girl that cried on your shoulder?
Or the child that screamed at you because
You'd insulted me?

Do you think I am aware of what I've done?

I know I've made mistakes in my years.
Do you think I'm that ignorant?

I wonder because you're one of them.

Our analysis of the human race
Will forever burn itself into our minds.
The controversy.
The world itself and its ****** up society
Like a cold, smooth granite countertop with
Grey/ green mold and sharp stench from
Spilled milk. The rustles of a silent wind
Knock, KNock, KNOCKing on the windows at night,
The fear.

Is it something about religion, the fear?
My God is right while yours is wrong,
None of us steal, but a few of yours murdered, so
You all must be killers.
Do you cast spells, have you cursed me?
Ive had this stabbing pain in my side, do you do voodoo?
What if I knock, knock, knock on your door and
Shove it in your face because I am right and you are wrong,
Is this controversial enough for you?

Is it something about teeenagers, the fear?
Their whininess?
"They know nothing of the real world,
The hardships.."
*******.
"They're looking for attention, they are manipulative thieves,
Taking money from their parents,
Why can't they get a job?"
Because its *******!
There are no jobs,
School is based on answers, not trying,
Whining? Because we accept that the world will
Carve out our stomachs with spoons
And blame us for the red graffiti on the side of the train?
What about the adults and even some of our own that tell us to
Hole up and die because of the music we like
Because of our mental disorders,
“They cut for attention. Why dont you
Carve a little deeper and paint a pretty picture?
Feel the sting like being *******, motionless, next to a hornets nest.”
Is it controversial enough for you?

Could it be something about ***, the fear?
The clubs, the ****** and prostitutes,
The millions of dollars going toward their single parenthood every year?
The reality shows depicting teen pregnancy
Yet shunning *******?
It’s exhilarating, but it is a sin,
It is an instinct, but I am going to hell?
A boy tells his friend he got laid and he is the
Most popular kid in school, He receives a metaphorical blue ribbon.
His fifteen minutes of fame.
A girl tells her closest friend that she lost her
Virginity and she is known as the school ***** for the
Rest of the year, and maybe even onward.
Age thirteen after the first *** ed class,
"Momma, how does ******* work?
Do lesbians use ******?
Why is lesbian **** okay, but the other kinds are disgusting?"
Is that controversial enough for you?

Is it something about politics, the fear?
The money we do not have funding ****** in a war,
We have no place in.
Stronger guns with less of a kick.
The continuous binding of church and state,
Despite the promise from two and a half hundred years ago
That it would not happen,
Why can we not marry the people we love
Or cure ourselves of deadly disease without spending
What we do not have?
Is it controversial enough for you?

Not
Alone
Here

Everyone has something to complain about. Everyone has a reason to flip out or cry. Everyone needs a shoulder once in a while. Some people hide. I want to be the one people go to, it is my way of saying "please", "thank you", or "sorry" to those who have hurt me (I want so badly to rip your head off, so i will **** you with kindness and give you a place to whine and cry), have done something for me, or those who I have hurt in some form or another.

Insults travel trough generations.
They embed themselves in our minds,
Echoing the same phrase:
"You are nothing."

Somehow the phantom voices
Hurt more than the bruises across our cheeks
Because the purple and blue fades over time.

Sticks and stones may break my bones
But at least they heal.
Words are harder to forgive.

I can not deal with this much longer.
They are trying to help, but it's worse, I am isolated, I am scared.
My worst fear is coming to life.
If I go, it is going to get worse. I promise that. It will get worse.
I have tried to heal, and every time I try, they notice, and they
Make everything worse. It is worse, I will repeat it because it is true.
Just stop. Please.
I can not deal with this much longer.

Dependency. A cruel fate for a young millennial.
In this country, karma means nothing
Ethics are fiction, as I've found out.
Relying on the manipulative rich man.
He's different for everyone.
Where do you get your checks from?

You and I
Throughout the summer, in the water,
We were able to float into something so oblivious.
And, just like that, it disappeared.

Yet we stay and are seemingly stronger than ever.
You and me
Like the way it has been, but still want more.
Knowledge about everything.

Some things deserve to be forgotten, but
It is impossible. You and
I can never go back to
The innocence of knowing nothing.

I laid in my bed, staring out my broken screen window,
And I thought of you.
The stars in the sky remind me of your mind,
An endless galaxy of thought and memory.
I dreamed with open eyes that you laid next to me,
Whispering small things in my ear
And gently tracing the scars on my arm.
The small blisters covering my skin
Throbbing and sensitive under your calloused fingers.
We could talk about the little things that make life great,
Or you could kiss me senseless.

These hopes and thoughts repeat every night.
The imagery and technicolor thoughts leave shivers
Running through my entire body. I know you dream of this, too.

Lucifer...

Hah! Someone needs to go back to their first grade spelling class.
The King of Hell, Fallen Angel, Lord of Demons.
His name is more complex.

His name is Life.

He robs you of all happiness, feeds on your dreams
And ***** them out in a plastic, portable bathroom.
Disgusting things.

The King of Hell is one with us.
Walks, stalks, hides in our shadows, following and affecting every move.
In every. Waking. Moment.
And watches us in our sleep.

His name is Life.
And we are alive... Aren't we?

So few, yet so many.
I'm hungry.
I'm depressed.
I'm sorry.

And yet everything has lost meaning.
Everyone says these things like they don't matter,
And there are others that say them, looking for
Someone to notice the seriousness.

I am depressed- I hate myself. I hate my life. Everything is my fault. I want to die. I have tried to die. I want to try again, but the only thing stopping me is a promise.
I am hungry- I'm trying to eat regularly, but I do not want to. I feel okay, but I don't feel pretty. I feel lime I need to punish myself. I am lost and confused.
I'm sorry- I'm a *****. No matter what you do, you can not save me or help me. I am sick. I am a ****,only been with one man, not anymore, but I still feel the regret and shame we share. I feel guilt from things I've never done. And I do t know how to stop it.

The sting of fingernails, arm rubbed raw;
I want to destroy things. Take out everything and
Shatter all of the glass I can find. It's a symbol.
My mind is falling apart and no one gets it! My
Grades fail for a reason. Everything is changing since
I was found out. I need to escape. Move out,
Get away from it all; forget. Please let me forget.

"I feel the beat of my own words as they tumble
A stutter, a jump in the waves of thought that crash
Down, encircling my head, shooting an emotional gun
A bang in bed, so hard it breaks. The love causes a concussion."  

I am thinking too much,
I can't just let thoughts fall from my lips,
I wish I could speak out about emotion;
The path they've led me down,
And have people think they're beautiful and heartfelt,
But I don't have that capability because lately my
Mind has been overcrowded and empty,
I contradict myself like a wasp that has no sting.
What's the point?
I am a poet that can't write or rhyme,
I am a performer with no character,
An artist without a clear muse and so
I scribble on a page hoping to find
Someone who will respect my patheticness.
I listen to music, wishing that I could sound like
The people who know what to do the next day,
Because I have no clue.
Thinking that far ahead leaves holes in my vision
Because something is missing,
But I cant see far enough to find it!

My entire life has been a magnifying glass,
Trying to find my way, the right way, and society's way,
But I can only follow one path and that one
May not even be paved yet.
And as a girl who hated wearing shoes as a child
And who looks to her childish heart for guidance,
That may be a problem.

"Sketch
-------
In every drawing, every sketch, every line made with a pencil.
There are pictures hidden.
An emotion left behind.
An imprint.

Every **** at my screen forms a letter, making up the words you are reading now.
And every tap of my fingernail is some sort of song I have in my head.

Everything has a meaning. Even if you don't know it.
A math equation: 17t =.5+14(t+.25)
17 means something to someone. An anniversary.
.25: A quarter. Maybe dinner for a homeless man.

Everything has meaning.

I drew a tree on my page. And that symbolizes the ways I've grown.
Ways I've changed, matured.
And also the beauty and grace of just simply
Standing tall.

Every seam on my dress was designed by someone.
I am wearing an idea.
And that idea could've been someone's pride and joy.
The career they dreamed of and finally achieved.

You never know.

Every stroke of chalk, oil, paint, is an emotion.
I would stab a canvas with a pencil lead thin brush
And it would make a star.
So simple, so beautiful, but what if my head, my heart, my body, was trembling with anger.
Or fear.
Or sadness.
A white rose is beautiful, you'd give it to your lover.
But did you know it symbolizes death?
It's peaceful nature and delicate scent, it's bright light, it's bright color.

It makes me cry every time.
Because somehow, when whoever created that symbol or came up with the idea,
They wanted to die. And they most likely did.
So then, why do people wear black at funerals?

The color is the opposite of death. If you count the white rose.
It symbolizes rebirth.

Living in the hearts of those who actually showed up to mourn you.
While others might have skipped because its just too sad or,
Maybe, they're happy. And they wore yellow that day instead.

Read between the lines. Between the creases.
Between the fingers of someone I used to know,
There were scars.

Who looked at the side of someone's finger?
No one. They were hidden.

She was hurt, but she wore pink.
And her scars were pink as well.
New, like a baby's skin. And what if it was? If it was a baby's skin,
Her way of rebirthing herself into the world and find her new soul,
Her new knowledge?

Read between the lines.
Because she had them in her toes, too."

Maybe the wind is telling stories.
I don't know the language, yet
I know what to find.

A treasure that needs to be uncovered
Or a lost city in the clouds.
Somewhere the strife of life will not reach me.
Or maybe a handwritten story,
Telling of how the world turned cold and ignorant,
Singed at the edges by fire before the wind took it away.

Everything changes when love turns evil, doesn't it?
The eyes change and a perverted hate takes their place.
Ink may be a cure, but lies are a bandaid.

Pain comes if its uncovered, so why fix it?
Just run from it, if you cut it's head off, two will grow back, anyway.

I love him. I will until the end of time. I feel his hand in mine.... His fingers like ghostly kisses against my palm. He read it once. He told me I would have three children, all with my eyes. Then he whispered under his breath that they wouldn't be his.
I told him they would be, but he only hummed in disagreement. He stayed silent about it for years.

Yesterday, he held my hand just like he is right now. His fingers lingered on the calloused skin for a moment. He looked surprised, as if he recognized the feeling. I told him I loved him. I said it all of the time and I knew he felt the same, but this time he didn't say it back. He walked away.
I woke up this morning to three missed calls: one from his mother, one from the hospital, and one from our mutual best friend. I recognized what those three calls meant. I climbed out of bed and walked to the balcony outside of my three story apartment. I was about to let my tears escape when I felt his hand in mine. I suddenly realized why those three children would never be his. His fingers were ghostly as he traced the lines of my palm.

I need to say something.
I feel it pulling itself up my throat and
Through my lips, but it has been nothing
But my breath since I first thought of it.

I have no tolerance for anything,
Anxiety and impatience are taking over
And I know that no one will accommodate for me,
But I need to fix this somehow.

Emptiness has filled me for days now.
The only remnant of joy is when my mind is blank.
Then I can smile and show the world
The ocean.
The tide has not come in yet.
And the glass is only half empty.
I think I am as optimistic as I can be.
The sun on the waves.
Reflection in the aquatic
Mirror.
But the glass breaks and twists me into a spiderweb
Of scars that I find on my body.
No one inhabits this silky realm; I am alone.
I talk to myself. I create friends
And I watch television.
Text and play games on my iPad.

I write poems. But none of it is real.
I could swear it is all in my head.
Because who in this ****** up world would actually
Stick around
To untangle me from these scars,
Glue the pieces of the glassy ice back together and take me to the ocean
To swim.

But I am allergic to saltwater.

I tell myself that it will be okay.
It will get easier, happier.
The monsters eating me from the insides
Will shop choping on my bones and blood
Will fill the empty spaces.

That blood will not spill out, though.
No. I promised not to. One week at a time.
But it will spil into, fill the gaps
In my mind and body where happens and flash should be.
It will get better.

Things will be fixed and the shivers in my head
Will no longer cause a blank stare on my face.
I will smile for real and love freely.
I will be happy and free, live with no struggle to live.
I will teach and learn from those who
Succeed me in my illnesses.

No one can stop me.

Sometimes I like to think to my self,
"Life will get better."
And then I realize the harsh truth.

It won't

There will be short periods of time
When life is great.
You'll get a new car,
Your significant other will propose,
You'll get promoted and make a **** ton of money.
But everyone knows that those moments will not last.

Depression will hit like a title wave and you wont eat for days.
Insomnia will cause sleep deprivation
And the purple under your eyes will
Cause people to worry if yore dying
And maybe you are: on the inside.

There will be those best of times and those worst of times
But if you have those Great Expectations,
You will get yourself nowhere.

Life is a Series of Unfortunate Events and everything
And nothing will get in your way.
And some day, As you Lay Dying
You may think that it just wasn't worth it.

And then you'll look back.
The negative things are always the most drastic until
The good things mean something more.
Remember your proposal,
Or the time you swam into the lake
And opened yourself to The Awakening.

Remember the times when everything was **** and you said,
this Pride and Prejudice is really getting to me,"
But instead of giving up,
You picked that title up and said,
"Maybe this will help. Maybe these
Tales of Mystery and Imagination
Will heal my wounded soul."

And so you....

What I have done,
What I wish I didn't do and could erase,
Was telling someone in the first place.
I hate what this has become.
That poem that let almost everything out
Was my mistake in a typewriter document.

And the tears that have fallen since then are monuments
Of my pain and doubt.

My heart beats,
My heart is red. The blood runs through
And infects my head.
My cheeks burn,
I blush bright pink. My head is spinning,
I feel my stomach sink.
My body shakes,
My body wants. A thought of you
Is a thought that haunts.
My lips tremble,
My lips kiss. My throat burns
When it's you I miss.
My arms embrace,
My arms show my love. I pull you down
Just to see you above.
My eyes feel heavy,
My eyes see you. You look at me
With your eyes of nearly blue.
I see your face,
I see your eyes. The color changes,
The color cries.
I feel your lips,
I feel your grace. With an addicting drug,
Your tongue is laced.
I want your body,
I want your soul. I will keep you forever.
That is my goal.
I love your voice,
I love your mind.
I love the way you are always so kind.
I love your body,
I love your touch.
The scent you give: I can't get enough.
I love your laugh,
I love the times
That we can sigh and empty our minds.
We wait for the future,
We wait for a life
When we escape from our lives and I become your wife.
I wish to the earth,
I wish to the moon,
That everything we want will come very soon.
I wish to the trees,
I wish to the sun,
That you will be my, and I will be your, only one.

I know who I am now.

Concentration.
A game.

A game is about laughter,
Not frustration,
Not confusion,
But some games beg
For panic.

They'll ask you why you quit,
But they won't agree.
They'll say you didn't try hard enough.

Spoil sport.
Sore loser.

I am a sore loser when games challenge my patience.
When games remind me too much
Of life.
Or when that's
Exactly
What it is.

A drug like lust,
Pinning me at the wrist,
Scratches on my thighs.

Love me.

Tossing me into the water,
Watching me drown in
Desire?
Passion.

Bruises on my heart and body,
Curiosity is ecstasy,
Painfully hard to dictate.

Simplistic and forbidden.

When I haven't written for as long as I have,
I begin to think of any possible inspiration.
I have kissed and made love,
I have argued with others and battled myself.

Since no inspiration has arisen, I find myself
Torn between searching the ends of the Earth
And giving up.

Words are the building blocks of the modern world,
And I am unable to use them like I used to.
I find my poetry becoming essay-like.
Robotic. Empty. Hollow. When I speak my poetry,
I lack passion. My vocal chords leave me flat.
It may be spreading to my mind.

I lack passion for words and emotions all together
I am purely physical. I express my emotions in
An ordinary way, but I would rather sing and write.
I am becoming lost.

The beat, beat, beat of your heart reminds me
Of the thunder. I love it so, it lulls me to sleep
Like the drums in a tribal dance. The sweet beat
Shaking my head, ringing in my ears and
Telling me a sweet bed time story of
Men playing cards and getting drunk.
It's strange that you remind me of my father, but
You do. You are not drunken and borderline abusive
And he isn't either, at least, not anymore.
But you match me like no one else ever will.
I can hear a poem in you, like a sweet song that sends
Shivers through my limbs. A song that makes me
Want you like I never have before.
Physically, mentally, completely.

Even though I said goodnight,
I am still awake, crying myself to sleep.
And I hoped that you would've at least tried to ask what is wrong.

I may not want to talk, but I need you there, still.

It's been hard to live.
It really has. And my entire life has been sad.
Crying myself to sleep. Scratching my skin open with
My fingernails in the middle of class.
And having green ink poisoning. Trying to **** myself
Slowly.
It's not working. Then you came. All of you, but especially you.
I never knew what happy was. But you gave me a peek.
One or two words out of a novel.
And there is no cure. You can't buy the book with the loose change in your pocket.
You can't steal the magic beans from the man who already planted them.
They grew in my mind, a monster. I can't cut them down.
Or defeat the giant that growls in my ear that he will **** me.

I am not strong enough.
I never was.
Because the beanstalk blocked the sun and the moon.
And I never knew what happy was.

In one summer, I've become an alcoholic. I've become a reckless shadow of myself.
In one summer I caused the love of my life to distrust me. I showed him my weaknesses and he refused to forgive.
In one summer, I've proven to myself that I'm not strong enough to live. The once terrifying vision of a starile hospital ward seems welcoming now.
In one summer I've managed to convince myself I have nothing left.

Tell me...
Are we falling apart like a pastry in your fingers?
Like a lost receipt in the washing machine?

Are we falling away like a thousand year old shooting star?
Like cottonwood seeds in summer?

Is our love dying like Romeo and Juliet's?
Like the symbiosis of the bees in genetically modified fields?

Are we melting to nothing like cotton candy in your mouth?
Like plastic left beside a fire, rotten and corroded?

Are we falling apart like I feared?
Or can we stay strong and figure out
What the hell we will do with our life together?
Will we stay in stress and silence?
Will you continue not to look me in the eyes?
Will you continue to kiss me like there is something wrong?
Will you think that I am a sin? A *****?
Will you be scared for me when I fall apart again?
Or will you fall away and care more about what is for dinner that day?
Will you lie to me when you stop loving me?
Will you feel obligated to stay because of my
Mind killing me from the inside out?

I still cry over you.
I still mourn the love we had.
As pure as it was.
I never thought we'd be here.
Though another love has graced me,
I miss your unique touch
And the way you appreciated me.
Mistakes make us.
And break us.
I don't blame you.
I never did.

I can't listen to Van Halen
Or watch more of the shows we binged
Or even eat popcorn
Without thinking of you and everything we had.
Nostalgia plagues me
And keeps me feeling
Even though I shouldn't.

I've tried to get over being lied to.
I can't.
I've tried to get through the betrayals and blames,
I can't.
I've tried to get over that fact that I've been talked about and lied about,
But I can't.
I've tried to get past the reasons why I regret so much,
And I can't.
I've tried to get past the hypocrisy and narcissism
And I simply can't.
I've tried to get over the pain of knowing I'd wasted time
And could have had something that makes my entire life complete,
And can't.
I've tried to forget the dreams and wants I used to think were real,
But I can't.
I've tried to work my way through the conflict in my head, but I cant.
I am trying not to hate him, but I can't.

Steady thrums and drums caused rifting thoughts,
Reevaluating why confusion is so important.
Curiosity killed the cat, the mischievous one.

The murderer made way with a simple alibi
A photograph in a collection of poems.
A whisper in a crowd of screams and shadows.

Things unseen, but felt, serve to remind
Why constant isolation won't was away the messages
Sent by a silence and a distant stare.

Open books stained with salt and spirits
Haunt a space that should not have formed.
Lava spills out like a child's science project.

Maybe it was an experiment. A torn open pocket in
The rationality contained in the ghosts of minds.
Quiet and demented secrets whisper cunning propositions.

And maybe it was just a silly dream in the mind of a *****.
Telling the true and false is never accurate, after all
Who are we to say what is right and wrong?

Write and erase? Just like everything that has
Ever been said. Eyes are wide awake, but the
Spirit behind them is a sleeping giant. Stupid and oblivious.

Don't move, don't speak, don't try to make sense
Of anything that anyone says, that's my advice.
"Everything will be fine in the end."

I want a life where I have what I need.
I want to get away from all of the **** that had been happening.
I want to leave this place and go to the school I want.
I want to start my life.
I want to sell my work and know people enjoy it.
I want to be able to make people happy, not worry.
I want to be able to tell my ***** of a mother to *******.
I want to run.
I want to hide
From everything that makes me sad.
I want to look forward to our six month anniversary, and not worry about what today is.
I want to be happy, and I want you to not have to take care of me.

I want to grow old with you,
I want to be the minority you seem to mention a lot.
I want to love you forever, and have you love me back.
I want to have silly fights about if our kids will be able to play video games.


I never want to feel like this again.