I woke up
Sobbing
At half past noon
Because even in my dreams, I'm a failure.
I'm sure that you'd have helped me, if I told you
But its better for me to be alone.
Its better for me to leave you be.
God, I wish the sun would go down already.

Being a freak isn't what makes me sad.
Being the kid who doesn't even have to think twice when swallowing three pills dry doesn't bother me.
Being the kid with long sleeves on all year
Because you're tired of people asking stupid questions
I'm okay with it.
I don't really care anymore.
I hate people saying I do it
Did it
For attention.
If I wanted attention, I would have started smoking.
If I wanted attention, I would have gotten an STD.
If I wanted attention, I wouldn't have hidden so well.
Showing my parents after the fact wasn't a bid for attention.
I wanted help, because in that tiny moment
I actually felt like I was worth it.

Us writers
Artists too
We're delicate.
Delicate to the point that it's disgusting.
We're hurt by small things
Little phrases
Meaningless things.
They mean too much.
Always too much.
We're made of glass.
Glass words.
Glass poems.
Glass breaks so easily.

Did you know
That in a few billion years
The sun will implode in on itself and **** everything in this galaxy?
Or that
More people die each year
From falling coconuts
Than from shark attacks?
Maybe you knew that
The word for the phobia of very long words is
Hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia?
Did you know
That the stars are always watching you?
And that I miss you, too.
Did you know that those sodas I like
Come in glass bottles
And the broken pieces taste like heaven?
I'm sure you did
You always know.
I'm sorry.
This isn't about you
Not at all
I could care less
But you're the only person who listens
Sometimes
This blood is staining my shirt.

You whisper poetry in my ear
While I cut the heads off flowers.
Your breath is satin and I'm using shears
Stems and bones break the same way.
You're warmth and light and wonder
A sun in the void of myself.
You are a thousand universes all compressed
Into flesh and bone.
You're terrifying
But I want to explore you forever.
You rend me limb from limb
Never laying a finger on my skin.
You're the death of me in an immortal soul
Perfection in the cracks of a vase.
You deserve my hatred for my pain
But I love you ever more with each ache.
You've left me helpless and
I only want more.
You're stars in the vastness of sky
Looking at the flowers I am, sprouting from mud.
You burn me with a glance
My petals withered and fell.

I hate myself.
This isn't a question of 'I like this
'I dislike this
'I wish I was more--'
I hate myself, simply.
My parents love me more each day.
My siblings would die for me.
My friends are beautiful people.
I don't want pity, religion or attention.
I don't.
I just hate myself, it doesn't really matter.
I'm not thinking that my me right now
Is worse than the me I'll be later.
My feelings are a constant ebb and flow.
Some days I only hate myself
The same way someone can hate a show.
It's a background thing, nothing that needs to be dealt with.
Some days, I hate myself so completely that I can't even move.
And I won't say it's okay, even though it is.
I've been taught that it's not okay to say it.
Recovery is a process, they say.
And the first step is to ignore your feelings so your parents and therapists can think they did it right.

It's so easy for me to fake-cry
To force tears in rivers down my face
Contort my brown and cheek to sorrow
But
Real tears are impossible, nearly
I can sob and shake and moan
With not a single drop to escape my eyes
And then it's over
Three drops, magic elixir
No more tears
Not for weeks or months
Or years.
Why is fake-crying so much easier?