I'm just a writer.

Nothing more, but never less.
I know my worth, while you ******* stretch.
I have the cards and I have the gun
you have no clue what distress can do.

Be my buddy or be muse
Just leave me alone
If you think I'll lick the blood from your rotten wounds.

It was a few weeks and we fell high in love
I sat and gazed while he took the plunge.
I loved whenever our hands interlaced,
just delicately resting on the same gun.

want to reach out

want to grow the sprout

so why is the weight of the phone a block of cement in my hand?

why do i feel like every word still wouldn’t make people understand?

want them to see through my lenses
want them all to come to their senses

how do i make you care the way that i feel will keep me above ground

i didn’t go through this to be your slutty little rebound

so hold my hand and kiss my softly

although the end of the receipt is quite costly

the bus is coming
and it’s raining outside.
i’m cold,
and my shaking fingers are
shooting missiles toward you from
fifteen miles away.
texting is the worst form of communication.

the bus is coming
and it’s raining outside.
can’t you ever answer the
******* phone when i call you?
do you even love me? do you
care that i’m in pain?
do you care that i’m waiting here,
alone, cold,
while you have your car and
some other ***** snuggled up under your arm?

the bus is coming
and it’s raining outside.
what am i supposed to do,
leave you when you say you don’t care about me?
others have told me that i’m resilient
and i don’t want to make liars out of my friends.
i can take this. i can take this.
i’m not afraid of pain.
keep hurting me. tell me to **** myself
and i’ll kiss your calloused fingers
and worship you like nothing else.
i am on my knees
and the lentils you had me kneel on
are beginning to cut through my skin.
baby? do we still call each other,
baby?

the bus is coming
and it’s raining outside.
do you remember that morning
when you called me a fat ******* *****
because i spilled coffee all over the kitchen floor?
do you? because i do.
and i would crawl through the coffee and the
scattered glass like a dead man does through hell,
trying to get to something better
but knowing they never will.

the bus is coming
and it’s raining outside.
i am not crazy.
well, i am crazy.
but i’m not crazy here.
here, i need you to hear me.
don’t just say you do-
actually do it.
pull my heart out and look how it
pulsates with love.
every beat was made for you
and you just won’t look.
you won’t listen.

the bus is coming
and it’s raining outside.
i have put my hands
through blazing fire to
soothe your enormous ego
and you can’t pick me up
from the ******* bus stop.
****! what’s a girl got to do
to find a man that will
lick her wounds and devour
her fears? am i not worthy of love?
should i just **** myself?

the bus is coming
and it’s raining outside.
i’m a mistake. i am unlovable.
i am a ruined being left alone by God to
suffer in this hell we call life.
everything he says about me is right.
i’m difficult. i cry too much. i’m too depressed.
i’m crazy. i’m crazy. i’m crazy.

the bus is coming
and it’s raining outside.
what was i thinking?
i don’t need a man. i don’t need anyone!
i am more godly than anything up in the sky
or beneath the earth!
i am the vacuum of space
and i’ll suffocate those who think
i’m anything less than perfect.
why won’t he pick up
the ******* phone?

the bus is coming
and it’s raining outside.
i check my phone.
it’s 7:11pm.
the bus isn’t coming.
i don’t think it ever was.

When I was a little girl, I hated violence.


I'm almost an adult now and violence is my greatest strength, I don't think it's better than kindness but nevertheless it seems powerful, loud, I can't express myself without it.


I have to be aggressive almost always, and it hurts people but nevertheless, it's the only way people listen to me. 


I feel worthless without my voice, like my dad’s old t-shirt that's now used to clean up dirt. 

I feel small when I'm not heard, I could be in class but nevertheless, I'll stand up shatter like glass.


You see, I grew up thinking that being quiet would make things calmer, quiet would glue my family back together just like the broken clay cup on the kitchen floor after my parents would scream simultaneously over each other, so from a very young age I hated violence.


The aggression triggered the self-hatred in me, I made an effort to sit behind the corner so I could be ready to step in because when they fought, it was like the apartment suddenly filled with strong currents from the sea in a deep underwater cave that only seemed to be relieved when my father retrieved.


I never wanted to be labelled as the "crazy and violent" girl, nevertheless, my emotions flood with rage as I try to grip onto reality.

I spoke my mind with words that cut deeper than a blade, louder than a man, I suffocated people with my dark intrusive thoughts.

My personality was bigger than brothers hoodies I used to steal.


One day I began to find comfort in my violence and somewhere along the way, I learned that my voice is like an old childhood blanket that's so ***** and worthless, but to me, It's my only way of feeling heard. 


I learned not to let people in because what's the point if in the end I'll be letting them go through the smoke of a joint. 

I learned not to hold myself back when an immature boy only sees me as a toy.


I learned to love my quiet yet aggressive personality because as a child, myself is all I had. 


Violence isn't always the answer, nevertheless now that I'm grown, I don't hate violence.


In fact it's is my greatest strength.

I long to crawl from my own skin.
An emptiness consumes me from within.

Far and wide, I search for a home; a prison it is to exist within my own bones.
A gnawing begins to fill my brain,
maggots and vermin lead my mind astray.
I long for the day I am severed from myself.  

Suffering, I sell my soul
to gods of worlds old,
just to breathe a life free of the suffering that is me.

You don’t want to die.
No.
You want happiness.

You want to wake up in the morning feeling alive with each breath that comes easily and weightless; You just want stop feeling like this is a nightmare you can’t wake up from.

The possibility of happiness manipulates you into thinking you can have it then, inconveniently at the most in opportune time reminds you that happiness is just not something you can have no matter how deep the yearning you have to submerge yourself in it; happiness is there, all around yet just out of reach so that you can see but never manage to have it.

You’re hopeless, alone in a cold darkness that suffocates you, leaving you breathless and isolated from others by past wounds that wont heal.

At times you’re overwhelmed, like a deer in headlights you can’t move; feeling paralyzed not knowing what to do, say, think, should you sit? Waiting until you “unfreeze”
you’re frozen in an attempt to pullaway from an invisible hand that has a tight grasp of your upper arm. Eventually it releases its hold allowing you to move once more leaving you to now wondering, lost on what to do .

Sometimes you’re trying to find reason to live, more reasons than your kids. If it weren’t for the kids you wouldn’t be here. You have tried so many times. But are left to fight for yourself. You’re all you can depend on in the end. Whenever that will be.

To crave,
Wails of agony, voices soaked in terror?
Call after call, message after message.
Care, love, sympathy?
Succor, surveillance, support?
Tear after tear, hands shaking and grasping?
Pity, solace, warmth?

To receive,
Levigating guilt, being disintegrated.
Evanescensing from reality.
Blood clotting and drying.
Those who are paid to give care,
Who seem as though sympathy;
Hadn't glazed over their eyes in decades.
A room so cold and sterile,
That not even the warmth of my breath
Could stop my bones from shivering under my skin.
Desolating abandonment,
Hums of fluorescent lights,
In chorus with sobs of despondency

It isn't what I wanted.
But it is what I deserved.

If my love could heal,
the faded traumas
which adorn your skin
would expire

If my love could heal,
you wouldn't pleasure yourself
to the idea
of her suicide

If my love could heal,
you'd feel your mother's absent love
through the cracks
in my lips

If my love could heal,
maybe I'd learn to heal myself
before others

And then maybe;
I would've healed myself
before a predator