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imperfectwords Jan 2018
You are like rain.
quiet and soft;
beautiful no matter how intense.
You are like rain.
steady and swift;
as you go,
you leave my heart
colder than before.
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imperfectwords Jan 2018
"I can see my door, my bed, my window, my chair, and my table.

"I can feel my spine against the wall, my feet against the floor, my jaw tightly shut, and my fingernails buried in my arms.

"I can hear the wind coming in from the open window, my heartbeat rapidly thumping, and that familiar voice in my head, shouting once again.

"I can smell the dampness of the ground outside as the breeze carries it to my room, and the sickly sweet odor from the soap used on my hands.

"I can ******* blood spilling from the bite in my lip; my last harsh reminder that
        I
        am      
        still
        alive.
When you call a suicide prevention hotline, they will often ask you to describe to them 5 things you can see, 4 things you can feel, 3 things you can hear, 2 things you can smell, and 1 thing you can taste to help ease anxiety. I hope this poem helps someone struggling to look forward, because believe me, it does get better.
imperfectwords Jan 2018
When strangers look at me,
they see a girl who seems
crazy.
I understand that
they might not get why.
It's hard to explain and
difficult to fully comprehend,
but it's okay.
How can I expect people
to commiserate, when they see me
obsessively counting steps,
perpetually cleaning surfaces,
constantly washing hands,
regularly checking locked doors,
randomly tapping everything,
and always
repeating?
The answer is:
I can't.
But it's okay.
It's okay because I know I'm
different.
I know I have odd routines
and strange rituals.
I know my fears aren't rational,
and my compulsions aren't
logical.
I know I look crazy to those
who don't know me,
who don't understand that there's
a constant battle in my
mind.
At the end of each day,
what really matters is not the
looks or degrading questions I
receive.
What matters is
how
I
see
myself.
imperfectwords Jan 2018
"cant you just **** it up?"
my father asks me.
"maybe you need to be tougher,"
my therapist tells me.
"why do you let it all get to you?"
my best friend questions me.
"just let it roll off your back,"
my mother instructs me.
"what is wrong with you?"
my mind wonders.

we live in a world where we are trained
to be defensive around others,
not kind.
maybe instead of preparing for the cruelty of the world,
we can put down our weapons and
try to change the perspective
by turning the angry words into
hands to shake.
imperfectwords Dec 2017
words spill from the woman's lips,
but I cannot hear a thing.
my mother sits across the room,
nodding as if pleased with this verdict.
more medication.
more artificial happiness.
less control.
that's all I want. control.
something I know I will never have but need nonetheless.
this woman speaks the names of many, many drugs that she attempts to combine.
an artist of intoxication,
she mixes chemicals as if preparing to paint a picture,
but this picture must cover up the old masterpiece,
something so worn and faded
it must be replaced.
for how could anyone love
the crumbling portrait of a once
beautiful girl.
imperfectwords Dec 2017
love.
four letters,
only one syllable.
used so many times,
it now has lost meaning.
again and again you repeat yourself,
but I have lost count
of all your lies.
here you are
breaking another
promise.
imperfectwords Dec 2017
She sits outside, alone,
waiting for him to return.
Hours pass as she anxiously
checks her surroundings
for his familiar face.
The wind in the trees rustles
thousands of aging leaves,
producing a deafening sound
that fills the crisp autumn air.
She calls his name, again and again,
each time with less and less hope for his arrival.
Soon it is dusk, and although she wants to stay, she knows no one will come for her.
As the sunlight recedes over the treetops and shadows cover the ground, she faces her fear and
flies away.
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