I do this thing
where I disappear.
Nothing new. Three times now,
maybe four.

It’s a hobby,
like scrapbooking,
but with my own silence.

The first time,
they said it was hormones.
The second, attention.
Now it’s just
a phase I’m nailing.

I’m very good at it.

Every morning,
a resurrection.
Lipgloss.
Mascara.
Shaky hands. Ta-da.

Can you hear the applause?
Neither can I.

The skin’s still here.
So is the mirror.
And the voice that tells me
not to eat,
not to speak,
not to exist so loudly.

They call me dramatic,
as if pain
needs a spotlight.
As if I don’t bleed
in lowercase letters.

I joke.
I wear band shirts.
I make playlists with
no happy endings.
So aesthetic.

And they love it—
like how I perform survival
like it’s a talent show.
“Such a bright girl.”
“Such potential.”
As if I’m not already
writing my vanishing act
in invisible ink.

There is a kind of power
in being looked at
and not seen.

Do you know how it feels
to scream into a pillow
so well it forgets
how to echo?

I do.

Dying
is an art, too.
But living—
living is the part
I haven’t mastered.

Yet.

It is awake,

as so am I!


A chirpy chirp,

bravado to the world,

like a feather,

or leaves in the fall.


To be ceased,

at the wonder of it all,

and stare at the wall.

Over my head
With the weight of your sharp words
I feel like Damocles
As the sword is slightly swinging.

Would it **** you to miss me,
When I disappear into a shroud of my own fear?

Sound echoes through galleys
Filling the silence between us
Like tethering the lines that we drew.

Just lead me to water,
Let the waves surround me
I wish to drown in the deep.

Over my head,
With all of your sharp words
I feel like Damocles.

Let the sword fall
And knight me, nightly
As the dark calls
And I whisper back in my dreams.

Let the waves come,
Swallow me under,
I am drowning again
Deeper in black depths.

It won’t **** you to miss me,
When I return to you again.

it's easy to say time heals all wounds,
when every barren branch blooms again in spring,
when every new chick is taken under a safe wing.

but time is yet to wake me from my eternal winter sleep.

i still lay, unmoving, in my barren keep.

even bears leave me behind,
a permanent fixture in their den,
"maybe time will wake him next spring,"
they say, now and then.

the forest whispers above my head,
calling to the last absentee,
but i am no tree,
and spring does not speak to me.

Lonely... I'm so lonely
When the clock struck twelve on that silent night
Emotions befell me that caused quite a fright
Sadness and anger
A glimpse of the past
Regret for the days that just couldn't last
I felt like a failure, a reject, a mess
A desolate child stuck in distress
That's who I was
And that's who I'll be
A forever lonely child
Lost in misery

Spiraling

I'm spiraling

Can't eat

Can't sleep

Can't breathe

Imagining things

What do I do with your rings...?

Weep.... sink... hallucinate... repeat..

Take a break.. fall apart.

I gave you all of me, but you tore me apart

I tried too hard; you left me with a broken heart

I almost relapsed the night you walked away

Kinda shocked I'm still here today

I still see you at school

Thought you meant it when you said forever

Guess I was a fool

..I miss when talking to you was a matter of when...

Not whether

The ear bends to sound–
as does the ground, to the man
in the weeds; tangled by their doubts.
Wet eyes, as the sea; stained cheeks
I follow an emptiness with the fullness
of hope; to the bending sounds of knees

click, click!

My body starts to feel like wet pavement –
a couple slip ups, for the mind to easily recall
Anxious slow breaths, exhaling and inhaling
I cry out, “I don’t want to do this life anymore”

Taking a moment to clear out that sound,
bending backwards; but why for them, at all
These inner voices, are all so FREAKING loud  

Wait no, my insecure self, is just talking to itself.

3am, everyone is sleeping,
In a dark room sits a girl in bed shaking.
Looking for anything to numb the pain,
And quiet the heavy thoughts in her brain.

She has never had this brave idea before,
She goes and sneaks in her brothers drawer,
Pulls out his sharp army blade,
And runs to the bathroom where reality fades.

From an old art set she finds her own tool.
Continues to treat her stomach and thighs cruel.
She discovered this way to cope in 9th grade,
And now in 11th doesn’t let her scars fade.