We weren't ready to love;
on that, we agreed.

And now as we part ways, you ask
if you killed my muse?

No, darling,
just halted temporarily.

Lies, for it is worse.
Every past love has killed a part of me.

Today my knee popped again.
For the fifteenth time since it's began.

Skinned palms from breaking my fall.
Again, the hot blade of searing pain.
I hate how these are things I can perfectly recall.

I've sworn myself not to cry;
instead, my body goes into shock.
Screaming as if I were to die.

Catching my breath, the agony is finally over.
I used to be helped up from the ground.
But now, I get the cold shoulder.

In Phy Ed. class, they whispered that it was for attention.
I found that funny, considering I hate that.
And the brace, I would never mention.

The worst kind of death
is the kind that eats away.
Year by year.

The kind of death
that saps strength
'til there's none left.

The kind of death that can't be cured; only treated.
By injecting radioactive chemicals
into her bloodstream.

The kind of death that she tells me,
"feels like I've been hit by a truck,"
every morning when she wakes up.

The kind of death that steals
her future and mine,
and causes even the hardest of heart to cry.

The kind of death that comes with a genetic mutation,
a survival rate of 10-15%,
and 4 years left to live.

The worst kind of death
is the kind of death that is killing my mom.
And eventually, will **** me.

Hey you.
Yeah, you.
You're newly 14, I'm newly 16.
Here is my advice to you.

I know you're broken.
I know you're tired.
I know you're hurt.
And guess what?
You will still be broken, tired, and hurt.

****'s pretty tough right now, yeah?
Well, boy do I have news for you.
It's only going to get more difficult.

Remember when you said you'd never cut
because the thought made you sick?
Well, a year later, you can guess what happened.
Don't worry, you've been clean for a month.

If there's anything you should know, it's this;
Stop trying to do everything yourself.
Stop lying to Mom, and stop thinking that Dad is mean.
They really do love you, trust me.
And if you don't trust anyone else, at least trust yourself.

Please talk to Mom.
Don't shut yourself away in your room.
Spend time with her while you still can.
You don't know it yet, but...she only has a few years left.
Make those years the best of your life, not the worst.
You don't know it yet, but she won't see you graduate college.
She won't see you get married, or open your first art gallery.

Don't procrastinate on those essays.
Putting them off won't get rid of the fact that you still have to write them.
While we're on the topic, be more open with your teachers.
Don't let them call you the wrong name because it makes things "easier".
Tell them who you are.
They will accept you.
They have to accept you.
It's against the law for them to discriminate.

More than anything, don't be afraid.
Don't be afraid to be who you are.
Don't be afraid to stand up for yourself.
Don't be afraid to try. new. things.

And on a sadder note, yes, you did eventually attempt suicide.
You still haven't even told your friends yet, you're afraid that it'd break them.

Don't focus too much on the worst parts.
You will move on from that toxic relationship.
You will be able to love again.
Although, you will always still flinch.
That may never go away.

The path you're on is filling with ***-holes, bumps, and steep hills.
Keep trudging on.
You were never one to choose the easy route.
Hell, life didn't even give you an option.
But I know that you're determined.
I believe in you.

Know this;
You might not think so, but you're very important.
If you can't live for yourself, live for your friends.
They need you.
I need you.

Keep your head up kid.
It's going to get tough.
But you're pretty tough too.
In the meantime, stay alive.
There are people here who need you.
You're going to do great things.
Stay strong.
Stay proud.
Be you.

- Ren

I hate the word "perfect".


Nobody can be perfect.
It's literally impossible.

They say, "Don't change, you're perfect as you are."
Humans can't be perfect.
It's not in our nature.

Our media portrays perfection as people's personalities painted in pretty pastel.
Don't be fooled.
Perfection is disgusting.

Perfection
is tearing your hair out over a simple dashed line
in front of the "A" on the report card.

Perfection
is raking chewed cuticles across your cheeks
for missing the kick in Phy. Ed class.

Perfection
is spilling your guts out after every meal and screaming into the mirror,
"Am I perfect yet?! Am I good enough for you?!"

Perfection
is ripping apart the artwork you poured your heart into
because someone pointed out a flaw, and now you can't unsee it.

Perfection
is gorging on painkillers
as if they would take away the emotional pain, too.

Don't you dare tell me that I'm perfect
because perfection is disgusting.


I hate the word "perfect".

It's that feeling when you wake after a long sleep.
And the sun streams in through the window on your face.

I would give anything just to stay like that forever.
Getting up takes too much effort.

It's that feeling of heavy-lidded eyes on a long car ride.
The steady, low hum of the highway lullaby.

I beg sleep to meet me there.
Yet, she is evasive.

Because it's not what you see when you dream.

Whelp.
Once again, this ******* ****** up.
I tried to help her, but I just made everything a million times worse.

I ended up leaving her sobbing there.
How can I ever come back from that?
She probably hates me.
It's justified.
It'll take some time before I can forgive myself for being a ******* waste of space.

I recently looked at pictures of me.
*******, I'm ******* ugly as ****.
Mirrors don't bother me, it's pictures that do.
All that ******* disgusting acne.

Such a fat, pudgy face.
No discernable cheekbones.
It makes me want to take a knife and sculpt my own face.

I told myself I'd wait until after my birthday.
I don't want Christmas associated with death.
I always tell myself to wait.
Why?

Maybe I hope that by then, I'd forget all this **** inside my head.
It's never worked.
It never will work.
There's nothing, nothing will stop these thoughts.

I write these as a way to cope, but it doesn't work.
I wash my face twice every day to make myself look presentable, but it doesn't work.
My mom is taking immunotherapy for her cancer, but it won't cure her.

Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing
Nothing
Nothing­
Nothing.

A mole on my arm has been hurting and getting darker each passing year.
I know what it is.
I know I'll die from it one day.
I can't control that.
It's a gene mutation, after all.
I might be medicated for that in the future, but it won't work.
Nothing will.

I could tell my friends what it is.
But they'd cry.
It's best to have them happy about a different way of death than to cry over a gene mutation.

She thinks she'd be sad if I left.
Lies.
I know she hates me.
I don't know why she talks to me and pretends to be a friend to me.

Maybe it's pity.
Another "friend" already told me that I was a pity friend to them.
So, I'm not surprised if she feels the same.
It makes things easier for me.

I seem troubled here, and she talks to her friend, having fun.
It's nice.
I don't necessarily have a closest friend.

My closest friend and I are becoming distant.
It *****.
I wish I could text her more.
Which I can, but it's something about me.

I'm terrible at maintaining only online friendships.
That's how one of my close friends and I don't talk anymore.
That was my own doing.

I sit and don't do much of anything.
I don't really draw anymore either.
It's not fun anymore.
Every time I draw, I just see the flaws.

Nothing is good enough and it never will be.
I don't know why I try.
I'm not good at anything.
I'm not good for anything.

Today is the 29th anniversary of the fall of the Berlin Wall.
I should know.
I had a report on it for my final last year.
Funny how that works.
Now it's stuck in my head forever until I forget again.

I know I will.
I always forget.
It's a symptom.
My ******-up head is destroying my memory.

I can remember basic things, but I forget things that occur.
I don't remember what I ate for dinner yesterday.
I don't remember what I talked to Blake about yesterday,
so I don't remember why he's mad at me.

It *****.
It makes me come off as uncaring when I forget these details about somebody.
That's probably why she sees me as uncaring.
That's not true.
I do care about her.
It's difficult to express for me.

I was raised in a way that didn't include the teaching of sympathy or empathy.
I know this sounds horrible, but if my dad left, I wouldn't be sad.
I wouldn't be happy either, but I wouldn't be sad.
He's already shown what he thinks of me.

I've never good enough.
I get a 4.0 for a semester and a 3.9 the rest of the year and I need to "try harder".
He's always telling me, "you're not trying," or "you're not listening", and I hate it.

How would he know about what I think and feel?
He's not me.
He's set on me being this perfect ******* angel child that I can never be.
He tells me that I'll never be able to pursue an art career and should focus more on studying than drawing.

I don't care.
I WILL be an artist.
I don't care how long it takes.
I'll be an artist and shove it in his face when I have my own studio and open a gallery.

**** the nonbelievers.
I can fly planes AND draw.
Just watch me.
If I don't off myself by then.

I had those random thoughts again.
Such as; how people pick you last for the first game of the semester played in a gym class, even though they don't know how good or bad you are.

It's off of appearance alone, which is *******.
"Oh they look thin, they're probably not good at (sport)."
What the **** does that have to do with anything?

When we played soccer, I showed up everyone else,
even though I was picked last.
They had the nerve to say to me, "Wow, good job!"
As if the notion that I was good at a sport was some sort of miracle.

Whatever.
Not like I played soccer for eleven ******* years.
Not like they knew that since sixth grade.

The way they say, "Wow, good job!", makes me sick.
They say it to me as if I'm unable to be good, just because they perceive me to be horrible at sports.
They sound so surprised.

Another thing's been stuck in my head ever since I've read Paper Towns.
John Green mentions people seeing mirrors of others as who they believe the person to be.
I find this true.
People love to think that they know someone very well, when they only know the version that they've created.
Green says we need to see through the window to see who the person actually is.

Which seems ******* impossible.
But it's not.
Just talk to them instead of assuming.

They've already built a mirror of who I am.
Of course, it's completely wrong.

I'm not some boring skinny twig that can't talk right.
I'm not smart, and I'm not rude.
I have emotions, and I really care about others, much more than myself, even.

That's not who I am to anyone else, though.

i.

I find that it's often other people's things that we accidentally break
except for our own hearts.


ii.

In a dream I once had, my dad said this bit:
I know it's tough right now, but you need to pull through. You can make it.


iii.

And from my mom, in a few years her picture will sit on the bookshelf:
I love you. You will survive yourself.


iv.

Maybe all of this was one big ******* mistake, but oh god, not you.


v.

Be there for those who care, otherwise, those who care will seldom be there.

you had your eyes on him for a while,
and i could tell that you really did love him.

for a while, you guys were happy together.
i was happy for you because you were happier than ever before.

but i wish that i told you what i had discovered earlier that year.
that while going after another's heart we often use our own as a stepping stone.

it wasn't until you came running into my arms, crying, after musical practice
that my resolve shattered.

it had been two wonderful months between you two,
but nothing good ever lasts, as you discovered.

I held you close as you choked out the words, explaining what happened.
"he's been looking at others," you sobbed into my shoulder.

"and...and, i asked him if he loved me," you took a shaky breath, barely able to squeak out the next words. "....he said no"

you broke away from our embrace, still unable to control your misery.
i hated that i couldn't help you.

but as the philosophers did say, history repeats itself.
and two weeks later you and him are friends again.

i see the way you look at him.
even though he shattered your heart, you still love him.

i'm okay that it's not me.
as long as you're happy, i'll be happy.

like how two wrongs don't make a right,
two broken people don't make a stable relationship.

Cold hands,
pale skin,
blue eyes.

Snowflakes,
ice skates,
gray skies.

Bad news,
illness consumes,
happy dies

Cracked lips,
fake smile,
telling lies.

Lonely boy,
wondering if
he can fly.

Bleeding knuckles,
broken body,
sobbing, "why?"

Rainy day,
dressed in black,
try not to cry.

Cold hands,
pale skin,
glass eyes.

He watches me close.
"Family," I say, "lose hope.
For I am not you."

This is a poem about friends.
Like poems, friendship can end.

Friendships are like a poem.
Complex, or simple, friendships feel like home.

Some friendships are short, others are long.
Friendship is a recognizable song.

That all know the words to by heart.
"A friendship like ours," they say, "will never fall apart."

Alas, this promise isn't always true.
Friendships can shatter or fade, leaving us blue.

Despite this, there are billions of others we can befriend.
Ones from which we can hear the truth behind, "'Til the end?'"

Pure, white light.
Nothing to surround you.
Floating in an abyss.

Breathe,
draw in, paint it out.
What do you see?

Swirling colors,
anything you can imagine.
They flow from your lungs.

Away, to an abysmal sky
of pure, white.
Black pinpricks.

Connect the stars.
They will guide
and set you free.

So bored, scrolling through social media sites.
I see you've updated.
Excited, I message you.
Just a simple, "Hi."

Shortly, I realize my mistake.
The recent picture, it shows you with your friends.
Laughing, having fun.

I remembered what you said yesterday.
"I'll be at the carnival tomorrow!"
Your face in the photo looks so, so happy.
Smiling brightly, eyes shining.
All the things I could never make you feel.

What's the point anymore?
I delete my message.
You won't be answering anyways.
You're out there, having a great day.
And where am I?

Just here.
Wherever that is.
Sitting, staring at this screen, watching, waiting.
It's all too much to handle, imagining you today out with your buddies.
Playing in the sun, on the carnival rides
without me.

We used to be close, so close.
What happened?
I was thrown out, like a broken toy.
Tell me, to you, am I nothing at all?

Unbearable.
I scroll past the picture trying to hold in the tears.
It's all too much.
I can't do this anymore.
I can't pretend.
It hurts, it hurts so much.
I know, deep down, I still love you.

Even though I cut that ribbon, it's weaving back.
Why now?
It shouldn't do that, you clearly didn't care.
So why still do I?

I clutch my chest, let out that sob.
The tears come falling.
The ribbon's back.
I'm sorry.
I don't want to hurt you.
I feel so, so, alone.

I'm so sorry.
I fell in love with you all over again.
It's torturous.
Once again, I'm feeling alone.

My last words to you were, "I'm sorry. I should've told you before I left."
And yours, "Don't abandon me."

My dear, these bottles shake-shake-shake in my hands, in my mind.

you do too.

And soon, I am to follow.

My turn to go up next.
The teacher glances toward me and nods.
I grab my instrument and walk to the front of the room.
A chair and stand awaits me.
I set the sheet music on the stand and take a seat.
"Whenever you're ready," he says.

I lift the french horn to my face and pause.
I remember the people before me who went,
eyes full of fear.
Hoping with every ounce of their soul
that they won't mess up.
My chest constricts tightly.
I struggle to take a breath, then begin.

The first note is perfectly on pitch.
So far, so good.
The phrase flows smoothly.
The piece goes well,
until I take a risky glance around the classroom.

A knot forms in my stomach.
Everyone is looking at ME.
Expecting ME to do well.
My fingers fumble as I miss a note.
I panic and rush the rhythms,
not caring if I miss the pitch.
I just want this TORTURE to be over.

Their gazes are icy.
The piece ends and I swiftly let my instrument down.
I hang my head low.
The ones before me look grim.
Surely I had disappointed them

The director says nothing.
The silence is KILLING me.
I feel my face flushing red.
The room is getting warmer.
"Next?" He asks, prying that I should take my spot.
I get up and take my things,
then do exactly that.

The next person plays perfectly.
I applaud with tear-stained hands.
They are praised well as they walk to their seat,
beaming in glory.

Who am I to pretend
that I understand this madness
called success?

A long time ago, I used to stare into the sky.
Watching with amazement,
breathtaking glory.
That was until you happened.

I felt a fluttery feeling in my stomach
every time we talked.
I began to realize this feeling.
It's what they called
love.

We were young and dumb.
Hopeless adventures.
I used to think,
maybe,
"does she love me back?".
We could talk for hours
and never tire.

Suddenly,
hours seemed like only seconds.
Every moment we couldn't be
together
was a living hell.

I became too invested
in you.
I abandoned my health.
Sleep didn't matter
anymore.
I'd lay awake until you would respond.
Messaging until the new morning.

I started to worry about how you thought
about my looks.
I parted my hair differently.
You saw it, smiled, and said,
"You made my day brighter."
I was foolish.
I thought you loved me.

Various unfinished artworks.
Too afraid to give you my confession.
I remained quiet
but somehow
you already knew
and said nothing.

Until that fateful day
my dad forbade me.
I couldn't spend time with you anymore.
Only in school.
That was all.

I grew depressed,
started prying open my skin.
Wanted to feel pain.
Wanted to feel "alive".
I quit after my mom saw the first scar.
You knew
but said nothing.

I told you about
my restriction
on seeing you.
Next weekend,
I am brushed off like
A broken toy.
Once used, now boring.

You brought someone else.
I was shattered.
I sunk further
into this endless void.

Eventually, my sexuality got leaked.
You were hesitant around me.
Nothing was the same.
Nothing.

You knew
everything.

I decided to end it all
right there.
11:34 p.m.
I sent you a text.
Waited for a response
with tear-stained cheeks.

You knew
everything.

You told me those words.
You saved my life.
A week later,
you had the other person over again.

I throw away all the art.
Everything I poured my heart
into.

I sink deeper.
You never loved me.
I knew that
but said
nothing.

Here we are
once again.
I pull back my sleeves.
That red spot on my wrist
it looks like a burn,
except it was pencil.
Scratch.

It reminds me of the night sky.
This mark is my
star.

The first snow has fallen; oh how it sparkles in the sun!

All she wants to do is run around and have fun.

Yet, there is work to be done.

This battle she's fighting seems won.

But, no one can tell

from fear and pain, she runs.

In Vilna lives a young Polish girl, so wealthy and carefree

Suddenly, away goes she and her family

Taken by force, pushed into a truck

Belongings stuffed into a trunk

A train awaits as they file in

The door closes and the light is dim

The young girl asks, "Where are we going?"

Her father replies, "Only the Russian soldiers are knowing."

Weeks fly by on the railroad

Ever so slowly the train goes

The prisoners alike arrive at a town

Once again pushed into trucks and carted around

The girl and her family arrive at a mining camp

The grandmother says repulsively, "We look like tramps."

"The land is so flat!" The girl remarks

"We're in Siberia...." The father says with a heavy heart

Silk clothes soiled and heads hung low

Into makeshift mud houses, the capitalists go

The landscape, nothing but brown and dried grass

The young girl thinks, "how long will this heat last?"

To the gardens, she goes

To **** the hundreds of shrunken potatoes

Her family is to work in the mine

On little bread and cheese, they dine

Finally relocated to a nearby village

Everyone so hungry, none dare to pillage

The girl goes to school and makes new friends

She wishes hopefully that learning won't end

Her family with their own mud house

Having not to worry about a single mouse

A letter arrives one day

To war, the father must be sent away

He takes the train to the front lines

Everyone says their goodbyes

Weeks later, the newspaper arrives

Heavy casualties reported, from those same front lines

They receive a letter from the father

"I'm alive." It reads, "About crying, don't bother."

Winter creeps in and nothing is left to keep warm

The girl steals coal and wood shavings thinking, "it couldn't do any harm"

Quickly the money goes by

The young girl takes up knitting on the fly

Her knitted sweaters earn them milk and potatoes

She spends less time with her friends, though

The little mud house too cold to bare

They find new people to live with, no warm clothes to wear

Years pass and the girl turns fifteen, not young anymore

Seven years they have spent in Siberia, living like the poor

Word arrives that the war is completed

From Siberia, the Germans had packed up and retreated

A letter comes, saying that the little family can go home

They take the train and upon arrival begin to roam

The streets are barren with nothing left

They find their house, not spared of theft

The father appears much older

The weather in Siberia was much colder

Than what Vilna, Poland was like

The girl takes her father's hand and family alike

The years of exile are done

The war is over, the Allies have won

for my dad


sorry i couldn't play sports you wanted me to
we both knew that my fate didn't lie in running
or golf,
or soccer.

sorry i couldn't be the perfect sweetheart daughter.
i couldn't pretend to be someone that i wasn't.
dresses,
lipstick,
blush,
flowing hair.
dysphoria.

sorry i couldn't always be happy and smiling.
i knew that you wanted some distraction
from what was happening with mom.
but, it got to me too.

sorry i couldn't be a straight 'A' student.
you knew i was capable of that.
but we knew with my restrictions that i would never earn an 'A' in phy. ed.
"what about uw-madison?" you would say.
and i always replied, "they're just letters."
just letters....yet they robbed me of motivation,
energy,
happiness.

sorry i never said anything you wanted me to say.
maybe that was why you would always hit my face
and never anywhere else.

sorry i didn't have any worthwhile talents.
i knew you hated my art.
you'd come into my room at times to look at it.
and scoff, and call it ****.

sorry i.....


No.


I'm not sorry that I can't be who you want me to be.
I'm not sorry for being who I am.

In the midst of the melancholic dusk,
soliloquies of the forgotten are hushed.

Those who listened snickered
at the surreal hopes of those
who search for their flicker.

For you see,
in a year not so long ago,
the Empathy did leave.

Ever since the start,
Empathy lived in the world’s heart.

He came to visit us every day.
His grin is warm and bright like sunbeams,
and he hides behind what the people say.

Empathy was the hero of the lost
His touch mended the broken spirits, although,
none of us knew it had such a hefty cost.

Is there a more affable friend that could possibly be,
than that of Empathy?

Empathy was a close friend of mine.
When I sang his somber song, he appeared.
The bourgeoisie had never seen anyone so divine.

There was something furtive in his eyes
as if he knew, somehow,
that he would have to bid me goodbye.

I asked him, “Empathy, what’s going on?”
He replied, “The light is fading. They have killed the dawn.”

And so I saw his words ring true.
The sun rose not,
The sky faded gray from blue.

The people of the world began to hate.
Abandoning Empathy, they set the universe ablaze.
Fire choked the sky, for us it was too late.

“Save yourself and run away!” I cried.
But Empathy, he shook his head, smiled, and died.