I’m the girl who tries to be nice to everyone then gets taken advantage of. I’m the girl who tries to look pretty and it’s never good enough. I’m the girl who acts like she’s happy then goes home and wishes to be gone. I’m the girl who takes harsh words, acts like they’re nothing, then goes home and cries. I’m the girl who tries to get her point across and could never find the right words. I’m the girl who has more depth to her than everyone thinks. I’m the girl who hides from harsh eyes. I’m the girl who wouldn’t care if you gave me a ****** gift as long as you thought of me. I’m the girl who prays that someone will finally understand. I’m the girl who gets happy over the little things. I’m the girl that people misinterpret.
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 7:26 PM UTC
Out of nowhere, it hits you.
I want to die. Or hurt something. Or feel something
Anything
But nothing happens so you're left in the pit that is sadness, darkness and hate.
It kreeps into your blood and never leaves you like ivy lacing it's stick thin fingers around trees and slowly killing them from the outside in.
But
This kind of pain is felt from the inside out and you hope on one sees or helps because you feel like you desever everything you get, everything is meant to happen for a reason.
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 4:47 PM UTC
Tonight he leaves you with a pile of his favorite CDs;
you dream of loading them onto Noah’s Ark before the flood,
along with his 3 A.M. texts and prescription glasses;
he will talk to you when she is not around,
look directly into your eyes, until your heart cracks
and spills into his palms like a weak egg yolk
ready for the frying pan. Do not wait for his little green Facebook
symbol to light up or you will be up all night.
He will kiss her in front of you, a kiss so deep
it could cut straight to the bone like an interrogator
slowly removing a suspect’s finger with a carving knife.
Shield your eyes and turn away;
pretend you are casually studying the poster on the wall.
You will wonder if her body leaves an outline in his bed
the same way a crime scene is taped off
around the chalked-in edges of the victim,
and still he will call you twenty minutes before midnight
wanting to go out for ice cream
when you end up comparing the best 90’s music
over his kitchen table instead. When he looks at you
across this very same table, stare directly back.
Do not flinch. Do not turn away this time.
Let the tidal wave of his stare wash over you
until it drenches your hair
and he wants to comb out the sadness with his fingers:
let him. Let him.
It will take a while to work through the tangles
but savor this last moment with his fingers
unknotting you like needles, before tomorrow,
when he will go back to her again, bouncing
between the two of you like a yo-yo,
the kind that returns to the owner
then moves on to another when it grows bored.
Feb 22, 2015
Feb 22, 2015 at 5:37 PM UTC