She stands infront of my path
as it to get my attention.
I pretend to fumble with my planner
and I walk past her.
I hear their laughs over the crowd.
They’re laughing at me, aren’t they?

But I have my planner dog eared.
I was already open on this week.
I was fumbling purposefully with last week.
I knew exactly what she was doing.
And I purposefully ignored her.
Why do I hate her so much?
Why am I so non-verbal when I feel sad?

Don't know if I want to
drink this coffee or smash
the cup on my head.

Maybe it would look great
with coffee staining my face
like the pages from an old diary.

Maybe I am just a bunch of words
but you can't read all of them
because of the coffee staining
the pages and the words and my life.

The only thing that separates me
from Plath is that my words are
either written by a child or by someone
illiterate or by someone sad or by me.

I feel like a tree in summer
plenty of outside, so you
may not see the rotting inside.
Birds peck at me all day
even when the sky turns blue
in the winter dark, my insides are still able to hide.

Sometimes I feel for my dog's heartbeat
because I know, at nine and a half years,
she hasn't got long left.

Sometimes I think about how I will react
when a death happpens.
Will I cry? Will I scream?
And then I feel guilty for imagining such a thing.

Sometimes I wonder how my friends
would react for me.
Would they shed tears?
Maybe not.
At this point, they'd probably
shrug and say they didn't know.

My mind has felt different recently.
It's not normal,
compared to people my age.
I shouldn't be this way.
I care about things my friends don't,
but they think they're empathetic.

They ignore the mssages
written on clothing tags,
but I'm wise enough not
to buy those clothes.

I have overwhelming dread
over my future and what to become.
But people say to relax
and let life take its course.
If I let life take me places,
it would take me to a mortuary.

She gives me mixed feelings.
a week ago, I thought no one wanted me alive,
but now she's able to look me in the eye.
I've noticed she laughs with me now.

Is it me or are people just being fake?

The only consistency right now,
in this moment,
as I sit in bed at 12:01 am,
writing this,
is that I know that my pen will never
catch my head up, my thoughts.
I don’t like using the word “brain”,
it feels too technical, even though I am.

I don’t want to get old.
When “What do you want to be when you grow up?”
became “What are you going to do?”
was when I realised how badly
I want time to stop.
I know a way to make time stop.
A permanent solution to a temporary problem.
Or maybe my problem is also permanent.

I want a break
so my pen can catch my brain up
and so I can finally piece together
a suitable future.
Will my parents be proud?
Of course they will, it’s their job.

It’s now 12:06. Thank you.

Flat on my back,
I wonder if I should redecorate my room before I go.
If I ever have the guts to go.
Sorry, not “guts”.

Sitting up slightly,
I realise something:
If I were to go now,
I wouldn’t leave any of
my “friends” a note.
Maybe they’d wonder why they didn’t get one,
but one can’t be too hopeful in this filthy world.

Standing infront of my covered mirror,
I try to see through the blue
fog of my jumper to what they call my face.

No, I wouldn’t leave them the letters,
but I would make sure to leave my family some.