I feel the weight,
of my existence the most,
At night.

With the lights turned off,
And nothing to distract me,
From my thoughts,
My body feels like an anchor,
Keeping me on earth,
Tethered to reality.

Not anywhere close,
To the distant stars and moon,
That entice me so.

I want to run until,
I disappear into the wind,
And I want to not move at all,
Holding my breath until,
my stillness allows me to fade away.

You say you want to be,
more,
than friends.

But when I reject your advances,
and you want nothing to do with me.
I know the truth.
You don't want,
more.

If you did,
you would be happy to have a little,
less,
of me in your life.
You would not villainize me,
pouting like a toddler,
who was told they couldn't have candy.
Friends may not be everything you dreamed of,
but it should mean something.

You really think,
less,
of me than you do your friends.

This poem mentions self-harm. If this upsets you please don't read it


I used to want people to look at me,
And know that I was sick.
I envied those with physical illness,
As opposed to mental.

I romanticized their struggle,
And their experiences.
I felt hurt that I was treated,
As though it was all in my head.

That was until I engraved,
Markings upon my skin.
Now everyday I see,
The memory of,
A darkness I,
Nearly lost,
Myself,
In.

You haunted me,
In my dreams last night.
I was at your funeral,
And every time I tried to speak,
Someone interrupted me.
I was going to say,
How much I loved you,
Cared for you.
I was going to tell you,
How badly I felt,
That I hadn’t told you before you died.
But even my unconscious self,
Won’t allow me that closure.

Years ago I met a girl,
Who confessed she once fantasized,
About struggling with mental illness.

She wanted to be like her favorite artists,
Craved a diagnosis to make her interesting,
A beauty mark that interrupted an otherwise plain face.

That was of course until,
Her eating disorder took control,
And that unique little trait started to **** her.

Ingenue got a new bike today,
And she knew just what to do.
For despite her name,
She's not new to the game.

Ingenue had already made the classic mistakes,
Had bikes stolen, more than a few.
Oh she would carefully close the lock through the front tire,
Checking once, twice, even three times,
To ensure that it was fastened,
Coming back to find
The rest of the frame,
Stolen, and only herself to blame.

Ingenue knows better now,
She finally has a clue.
She splurged on a nicer lock,
Strategically placed duct tape,
To make it look old,
For no one bothers with a broken bike,
No one will hurt her now.

You Don’t Own Me.
Everything inside me shouts,
From my bones,
My muscles,
To the blood traveling through my veins.

I am terrified of being trapped,
Pinned down,
Like a butterfly,
Killed and speared with a needle,
Caged in by glass,
So that my beauty may be observed,
And owned,
In ways it couldn’t if I were allowed to live,
And fly free.

You Don’t Own Me.
So I don’t want to be defined by you,
And your thoughts of who I am,
Who I should be,
What I can do for you.

So don’t you dare try to capture me,
Claim me as your baby,
Your girlfriend,
Your wife.
Though I may seem weak,
Innocent, and all together harmless,
There is a tiger inside of me
Just waiting to bite,
Anyone who gets too close.

You Don’t Own Me.
You Don’t Control Me.
You Don’t Know Me.
You Don’t Understand Me.
Even if it means I end up alone.