I think they forgot that I'm sick.
I didn't, though.

How could I, when
Nightly I clutch my pillow wth tears in my eyes
and sometimes I sleep with a blade by my side.
In the bathroom, I'd strike the match box
and watch the fire burn.
When I wear shorts, I'd put my hand to my thigh
and trace over scattered scars.
When, often, I fantasize and plan out countless ways to die
and remind myself I have only my promised year left.

Maybe its easy for them to forget though, because
I never really let myself cry
or cut my thighs.
I never let myself press the match to skin
and let myself burn.
I never let anyone see the scars,
pulling those shorts down.
And I could never really commit
because I'm too scared of failing.

Its strange, though,
Despite how I've stopped the self-harm,
it still hurts.

To be human is

To create
To think
To laugh

To cry
To love
To hate

To have opinions
To have feelings
To have identity

I don't think I'm human.

Rather, an artificial mimic.
A failure of a person.
An insult to humanity.

Nothing Nothing Nothing.

They say I shouldn’t worry about romantic desires,
and that I have to love myself.
Well, sure,
I do love myself.

I love the way my hair bounces when I spin
I love how soft my face is after I use the special wash
I love it when I wear the really cool clothes my parents hate
I love when I get overly happy over the little things
I love running my hand through faded scars from struggles past
and thinking
Hell yeah, I’m strong for that.

But is it wrong to want to hear those things said from another?

I lay under the warmth of plushies and duvet
wrapping my arms around myself,
and imagining that they were my lover’s.

I dress myself in the mornings
and wish that there was someone to call me
— not just a pretty person, I know that,
— but their pretty person.

And I want to call them my
Moonshine
Starlight
Love.

Because, yeah, I love myself,
But I want to love something more

And I want someone else to
Love me too.