this is how i do it—
skip a meal.
call it busy.

this is how i do it—
press the blade.
call it shaving.

this is how i do it—
smile too wide.
call it okay.

this is how i do it—
break a little.
call it growing.

"give"
They say
And I have
But I can't anymore
All I have left
Is hurt
And my shattered pieces
I refuse to make them bleed

I'm so ******* sorry I'm so broken

She said she felt bad for my father
Because I wasn't speaking to him anymore

Then she read my poems

To be a woman is to be objectified.
Through your eyes,
I am never just a soul wearing skin,
I am only skin. A body.
And this body
has been too thin.
Not thin enough.
Beautiful, but only when it gives you what you want.

I’ve been told to change, to squeeze,
to mold myself into your ideal:
perfect skin, perfect shape,
a perfect everything,
forever growing younger instead of older.

But I don’t need your commentary.
I don’t want your opinions.
Because I don’t need you to want me.
I don’t want to be craved,
I want to be earned.

This body is just a vessel.
My soul is what quenches thirst.
It loves, not to ******, but to nurture.
It builds, it softens, it embellishes your light.

Only the emotionally fluent
and the spiritually grounded
may proceed to touch this mind,
or this body.

I am not for everyone.
Nor do I want to be.

I'm terrified
of finding you dead
by your own small hands.
Though your hands are
almost as big as mine
I fear
the genetic curses
I have been battling
will hit you
and we wont know
until its too late
I'm scared to lose you
even though you are
fine

Thursday-July 3rd- 2:53-passed away-

I'll always love you--
even though your gone,
I love you to infinity and beyond.
🐕🐶❤️😢

endure gracefully.
bleed beautifully.
but never too much,
never enough to make them uncomfortable.

cry.
but wipe your tears when you're done.
open your eyes wider,
don't look so depressed,
you're ruining the photo.

girly you can text me anytime
until we actually do
then its,
im not ur ******* therapist.
and a lingering guilt.

why has mental illness also produced standards we must meet,
standards in order to be accepted.
why are some shunned and some welcomed?

we are not an aesthetic.
not broken people in soft lighting.

i scream,
i rot,
i flinch when someone shows me affection,
i hate being hugged,
but still crave it the most.
am i still worthy of love?