If I was a bird my wings would be clipped by a kid running around with scissors because its parents didn’t really care or shot by a man with a gun because the government doesn’t mind.

If I was a shark I would eat a meal that contained plastic scraps because proper trash disposal wasn’t a thing or get caught in a net and have my fins cut off to be sold on a market full of people who would eat anything they could get their hands on just so they rest of me could be thrown back into the water to rot and waste away.

If I was the sun I would have to exist knowing that people scream at me to burn hotter and brighter or dimmer and colder every second, minute and hour because of the extreme climate they gathered on their own planet.

If I was an angel my halo would be ripped off my head and thrown away like trash or I’d be on earth like every cliché romance plot ever and get shot and dissected by “scientists” who claim to mean good and crave to do bad because there is a reason happy endings only exist in fictional stories.

If I was human I’d be nothing short of disappointed.

Then again we are never good at being anything more than hypocritical.

I sent you a parcel the other day.
I don't think you check your mailbox frequently
Enough, because so far there still hasn't been much to say
Between you and me.
But it's okay
I guess. I mean I wouldn't know
Because there's no way for me to go
And check it for myself— or at least no
Way for me to check without making
A fool of myself but it's sure taking
A long time for you to see it. I
Know I left the return address but if you
Don't like it, I'd really rather you just put it to
The back of your mind than return it in pieces.

I care. Really, I do.
I’m a monster and a ******,
                    but I still have a heart,
                                                albeit rather
unfortunately.

I’m trying my best to be
   less of a no one and more of a someone,
                                                        more of a person.
To care more,
          to love more,
                     to take less
                        and give more.

I don’t care if it leaves me

broken.

But in some way I still

do.

It’s selfish to put myself before everyone else,
                                                          Yes, I know that-
And it’s horrid that I think I should treat myself
to the privilege of wanting something
that isn’t going to go to
                         someone else.
                     Yes, I know that too-

And it’s such a pity that I can’t bring myself
to tear my heart out of my chest
or rip my soul out of my body
and give it to you like I desperately want to.
Because I care.

Really,

         I do.

There’s more times than I can count
That I’ve wondered whether I was enough.
That I’ve wondered if I was good.

I can’t create art that people fall in love with
I can’t be there to support those I love
I can’t be pretty or smart or socially acceptably good.

I don’t know why
I really don’t

Sometimes I feel like
I’m not trying hard enough
And sometimes I feel like
I’m trying too hard
For something that can’t happen

So tell me,
For all that I love,
Am I enough?
Am I good?

I crave validation.
I want—no, need it like a lifeline,
Like a child in the face of a sweet treat,
Like a bird to a worm writhing from the ground,
Like a starving man at the mere sight of food,
Like a wolf to whoever dares harm its pack.
It sears through my body like white, burning pain,
It rips me of my sight to consequence,
It’s a drowning poison, yes.
But how am I supposed to let go?
How am I supposed to not look at any sort of praise and think,
God, I want that.
It tears me apart like a knife does in snow,
Jelly,
         Water,
                     Air,
But I would be a liar to say that isn’t what I want.
Is it a fault of mine that I desire with all my ****** up being
for something that isn’t a momentary
“Okay,”
              “Alright,”
                      ­           “Good job,”
                                                       “You’re fine,”
It’s not, it’s not okay or alright or good or fine,
I need someone to scream at me that what I’ve done is perfect,
More than great,
More than amazing,
More than wonderful, or spectacular,
More than perfect.
And if I can’t have that,
Then at least yell at me that what I’ve done is nothing,
At least beat the ****** **** out of me
And tell me to go **** myself.
Because that hurts less than
A bunch of half-hearted responses that
I never know how to interpret over text,
And never know how to comprehend in speech.
Just spare me the misery, that’s all I need.
I’d prefer you be cruel than make me guess
What you’re thinking.
Because it always eventually occurs to me that
Neither what you’re thinking or saying
Are the validation I crave.
So just save us all the trouble
And put me out of my ****** misery
Already.
Because if I’m not everything,
Then what can I be but nothing?