When did I stop trusting you?
I didn't even notice it.
When did I stop listening,
start thinking you were full of it?

Convinced I'd heard it all before,
read all the writing on the wall.
I'd smile, and nod, then close the door.
I won't believe you anymore.

Why did I stop trusting you?
I never even wanted to.
The sky, it just turned inside out
when I first lent my ear to doubt.

Evert night at 2 AM
Different poems are written
Different words are scribbled
Different papers are crumpled
But only one thought she had
Yet, word can't help her convey the feelings
"Empty" has much more than herself
"Sad" is not sadder than she thought
"Broken" is more whole than her
"Hurting" ain't just bleeding just like her
And when words can't take the role
It's the blade that play with her
Every cuts has meaning
Everything is her unreleased feeling

the touch of your hand
light was dancing in the room
a breeze of wind through your hair
when love was still in bloom.

I wonder if you ever look back
and see what you created.
You tore me down,
made to barely have any life,
and expected me
to follow your every command.
You knew I was developing,
and made it a mission
for me to develop to your liking.

Since our splitting,
I have sprung into all four seasons,
not even a feather weighing
against me.
I have been smiling larger,
and thinking of ways
I can extend my life,
instead of ending it prematurely.

You're still out there,
and I hope you are well,
but I carry no sympathy
for a person who once
attempted to take advantage of me.

There's more to suicide than what we think it is.
It's not just unanswered questions,
sometimes, it's unasked ones.

Hi! My name is --
       Armpit fat hanging out from the strangulation of my push up bra,
       Unlovely love handles poorly clothed by leggings waistband,
       A zebra-striped, stretch-marked ***,
       Shoulder-length, untamed mane resting on weightlifter traps,
       Snub nose on a face as circular and flat as a waiter’s tray,
       Except for the hilly scar on the tip of my snout,
       Eye bags of a zombie risen from the bed,
       Juicy, voluminous, red Skittle zits,
       Accompanied by a mole like Marilyn’s
       (But this one ain’t so ****),
       Four foot eleven and a half plus high heel calluses,
-- Katie for short.
But despite what I’m called,
Maybe we can get to know each other
A little better?