At age 2,
I learned what abuse was when I seen my grandfather hit my mother.
I still remember the tears in my mother's eyes.
At age 5,
I was made fun of for the first time.
To this day I still remember that day and how insecure they made me feel.
Their words still echo in my head sometimes.
At age 9,
I got called fat,
So I started skipping meals.
At age 11,
I cut and burned my skin for the first time.
To this day when I look at myself in the mirror I can still see those scars.
Little did I know that one cut can lead to mortifying addiction.
At age 13,
I almost lost my mom to cancer.
I told this girl about it and I was called an attention *****
To this day, I think twice before I even speak.
At age 14,
I realized what I was doing and tried to stop the destruction of my own body.
But it was too late; I had already built so people walls around my heart that I could even break.
Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 11:58 PM UTC
I want to tell you something,
it's a story, a few words about how I got where I am today.
It started with a touch, from myself,
The real me;
someone I don’t know anymore.
it hit me in the chest and it travelled though my veins
And it's become one of my nick names .
Sometimes I lay down at night and laugh at how much I hated myself .
I wanted to charge this and that,
And I changed all of myself and more to come.
I can tell you that I broke my own heart more times than anyone has and that anyone will.
But then I meet this boy and he changed my life.
He once told something along the lines of "you have to fight to love yourself; it'll be hard but I'm sure you will"
So here I am fighting.
I might fall and tremble but I swear I’m trying to stop hating myself.
I'm trying to let go.
The day I do,
I will scream at the top of my lungs,
Because I'm not a forest fire but I'm the forest itself.
And so are you.
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 11:11 PM UTC
"Do you write poetry
about my broken bones?
Do you find metaphors
for the way you burned
down the bridges we built?
I bet people think it’s beautiful,
I bet they think it’s poetic
the way you destroyed me.
I bet you tell them
falling in love with me
was an extraordinary artistic choice,
Destroying people
is not an art form.
Coloring people with shades and values
of black and blue does not
make you an artist.
There is nothing poetic
about reaching inside of someone
to take what they told you
never to touch.”
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 5:09 PM UTC
I tried a combination of hundreds of words to come up with something
And I got
Nothing
Because poems are supposed to be beautiful and intellectually stimulating
And I am
Not
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 4:55 PM UTC
Well here I am
at the edge of the abyss…
Should I get one more step?
Millions of voices inside me scream
I will not stop
One more step
And I'll be at the beginning of infinity
Going to
heaven or hell
an afterlife
or a nothingness
One more step and I’ll finally attain forgiveness
or will I attain an eternity of suffering ?
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 4:54 PM UTC
Isn’t it lovely how the last thought I have night is, wondering if I disappeared would anyone care?
The more I think this thought, the more it lingers in the air.
The more it lingers the more it begins feel unfair.
Why is this lingering thought following me, making me wish I wasn’t there?
Do I cry or scream, or leave it to stare?
Mocking me, teasing me with its empty glare.
Isn’t it lovely how I sit and regret even being born?
I sometimes wonder, if I died would anyone mourn?
Will anyone cry for me until crack of dawn?
Or is the only attention I will ever get when I honk a horn?
Is life going to be this way forever more? Isn’t it lovely how I need to take my life to be rid of you?
In such a hard time it’s easy to do.
I have some pills, I could take a few.
I will write this note so everyone knew.
The hardships of teenage life, though it’s nothing new
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 4:51 PM UTC