a nagging blanket of
blame
tucks me into bed every
single night

dreading walking into
doors i've known for years
because life was better
back then

it's hard to pinpoint
the exact moment
when home became a house

but i think it's the day
i lost the ability
to know who i was
on my own

and that was a long time ago

I look back to this path of
words and lines and
unfinished works and all I can see is
sadness and heartbreak

it's an odd revelation,
realizing all you've ever
felt strongly enough to write about
was love and pain

there's so many other feelings in the world
so many other stories
but the only ones I can tell
are the ones that have made me want to die in the end

if that isn't sad
I'm not sure what is.

objectified
made into a noun
a lifeless thing
a vessel for lust and pleasure
that can't reciprocate

dying alone in a
face full of plaster
walls built up but so easily broken
due to desperation and maybe some guilt

striving for attention and someone to love
someone to feel anything other than
blood rushing or mouths watering

i just want to feel important

i've never been anyone's
first anything

they've kissed before
touched before
loved before
hurt before

they live in before while i live in the now
i'm new to everything
i'm this lump of clay always forming while they're
their own statues

i'm drying out from all these tears
cracks are forming but not into beautiful shapes or patterns
just into memories and awful experiences,
self-doubt and loneliness

i am a lump of clay with no form just
sitting here waiting to be
touched by someone who's
never touched before

now wouldn't that be lovely

compared
not even worthy of a contrast
other names etched on your lips while you
look at me

it's difficult to understand
why you even bother
if you live in the past
so vibrantly

Too young** for those who prefer a number over a level of
maturity and understanding of the world,

too large for this who prefer to feel bones slipping between their
fingertips instead of warmth cradling their trembling self,

too smart for those who would rather be blind to the world and
how dim and dark and sad it can be,

too you for those who don't understand who I am, what I could be,
and how terribly much I could love them.

my self-esteem
has the sensation of a
tight fist
colliding
with a dying sun