if you had asked me as a kid,
"what do you want to be when you grow up?"
i could've rattled off a whole list
but i never imagined i would grow up
to look just like all the skeletons in my closet

If I sit on my roof
and block out the light from my house,
I can forget that I exist.
I can swim among the constellations
and lose myself in the bittersweet triviality
of our existence.
I can break free from the intoxication
of my life wasted on autopilot.
I can pretend that I am merely thoughts,
free of the weight of a life
and of society
and of reality.
I can question things
and depersonalize
and forget this anchor of a body
and all its bitter consequences.
But,
for now,
all I can do
is lay beneath the stars
and forget.

i just want to cry,
scream,
throw something,
anything but this ****** numbness

The main reason I haven't killed myself yet is that if I do,
no one will know all the thoughts and ideas and dreams I've had.
No one will know exactly how my mind works.
No one will know that I think my ceiling fan looks kind of like the moon
or that I use ink across my wrist instead of a blade
or that I am utterly puzzled by the universe and its secrets
or all of the questions that plague my mind when sleep deprivation has stolen my inhibitions.
My mind and all its complex mysteries would completely vanish from the world the second I
swallowed one too many pills
or made the last slash in my skin
or let gravity take me
or finally pulled the trigger.
That is the only reason I have held on so long.
It's almost as if I can pretend I matter in this world.
Almost.

Living
Getting worse
People finding out
The pity
The sugar-coated lies
The "oh, she fought so hard"
The "she just did this for attention"
The "I had no idea she was so weak and fragile"
Waking up every morning
Going to bed every night
Being alone with my thoughts
Never being able to stop
Gaining weight
Rejection
Judgement
Breaking down
Going crazy
How easy it would be
My weaknesses
My thoughts
Myself

why do we
hold ourselves back?
we tell ourselves
not to fall for
the boy in the cafe
or the ******* the train
or whoever it may be
because what if they don't like me?
my answer is
then they were never worth your time.

don't risk missing out on what could've been
when all that was holding you back
was you

instead of dragging
a knife across my wrist,
i grab a pen,
hoping that
maybe the ink
will seep into my skin
and **** me anyway

in the end it never matters
*it all hurts the same

i wonder.
if i stand in the rain
for long enough,
will it wash away
my identity?

i don't want to look there anymore for fear of the clockwork ****** that i make of my own memory every time i pass that house on Sheridan Circle. it is filled with the ghosts of childhoods well spent but long past and i can't help but think how the rope by which the old swing used to hang looks like a noose, which it may as well be. maybe one day i will swing from it for the last time.

i think the reason why i fell so deeply and helplessly and utterly in love with him was that he was not broken. i thought that maybe loving him would somehow unbreak me, make me a little less shattered than i was. i have seen and felt and fallen and broken and aged and heard and been more than i ought to have but there's nothing i can do about that now. and so i was drawn to his innocent, unbridled naïveté, which may as well be the last thing that has been left untouched by the bitter darkness of this world.

maybe
some
promises
are
better
left
broken

hearts are wild creatures
that's why our ribs are cages
but maybe that's why
they sing so often

we found our
wings
but
the world saw butterflies

Again, it's a
mystery

someone once told me
pain is like water;
you need a little
to know you're alive,
but too much
will drown you.
and now I think
isn't it funny
how the things we do
to feel alive
are the things
that can **** us?
i suppose
it's because
we just want to feel
**something

perfect matches
seem to stare down the
stars,
but together, there's
chemistry - which
turns to
tumultuous
dreams
despite the fiery
mystery

emotional stakes
are changed
when a young girl,
tasked to bring hellfire,
lays off the trigger

Forsaken
stars
Exposed
to the death
of
corruption

Death
is
the
Confession of
when the past
comes back
to haunt

the sky
flutters,
alighting
with
powers of
the ever-droll
last performances
of certainty -
or so they would like to think

i'm sorry
i don't talk much.
it's hard
to think
with all this
chaos
in my head.
quiet people
have the loudest minds
and it's
loud enough
in here.

An open mind-
An open mind is
        An open door
        An open window
        An open book-
        An open book
                Full of blank pages
                        Nameless
                        Wo­rdless
                        Silent
                Paper before the ink-
                        Ink
                                ­My tears are droplets
                                of ink that I cry into
                                poetry
                     ­   Ink
                                My blood is droplets
                                of ink that I bleed
                                into poetry
                        Ink
                              ­  My sweat is droplets
                                of ink that I work
                                into poetry
                       Ink
                                Tears, blood, sweat
                                Salty
                     ­           Like the sea
                       Ink
                               A bottle of
                                       Stories unwritten
                                       Words unsaid
                                       Promises broken
                       Ink
                               Emotions that I bottle
                               up and reveal only in
                               my writing
                               Things that could've
                               been and almost were
                               if not for
An open mind