Is it possible
to have a day
or week
or month
or year
or decade
where nothing goes wrong
where nothing hurts
and where nothing scars?

How do I tell my brain to stop?
I get in these moods when I should be happy.
So much is good right now,
but that one comment keeps sticking.
My dumb brain won’t stop fixating.

I try so hard to clear my mind and breathe,
but my brain speaks too often.
The words don’t connect with one another.
They’re all over the place.
From one to the next–I cannot focus.

I like girls and I like boys and inbetweens-
but boys are so much easier to date.
I know what to expect and what to do-
but girls and inbetweens scare me,
I get so nervous and make mistakes.
They’re the unknown.
But if I don’t know them as well as boys-
how can I possibly be worthy of “pansexual?”
Do I even deserve that title?
Im attracted to people,
not their gender or their appearance,
but I’m so scared of messing up.
I like girls.
I like boys.
I like those inbetween.
But how could they possibly like me?

I cut myself shaving today
And instead of throwing the blade away-
I made rivers of red artwork-
first my thigh,
and then my wrist.
And I left myself a reminder-
because I should just be happy.
Instead of being depressed.
So now that word “happy”
is engraved in my skin.
because maybe my dumb brain
just needs a shove to remember
that depressed isn’t pretty,
and if I just go to the gym I’ll be happy.

Dreams are often interpreted as lovely and fantastic,
but what some seem to forget is that nightmares,
as scary as they may be, are also dreams.
Those types of dreams are not lovely or fantastic,
hence the name: Nightmares.

Life is often interpreted as wild and exciting,
but what some seem to forget is that Staying Alive,
as agonizing as it may be, is also life.
That type of life is not exciting or fun,
but it's also: Life.

Every time a man gets too close
I'm brought back to those memories.
Memories of when He touched me.
A mere 12 years old,
lying asleep in bed.
So scared to utter a word,
too terrified to tell mommy.

Every time another woman confides in me,
I'm brought back to those memories.
Memories of when He hid in the walls.
Watching a little girl change,
thinking of what He'd do later.
Too selfish and perverted
to realize the impact He'd have on her.

Every time a boy gets too close,
I'm brought back to those memories.
Memories of when He had touched me.
When He had gotten too close; too handsy.
I cannot unfeel what he did,
Not even after 5 years.
The scar is forever sealed under my skin.

Every time I see that car,
I'm brought back to those memories.
Memories of Him and His Molestation.
And I cannot help but to wish
that somehow, some way, He had been arrested.
But instead, the man walks free.
And now He lives in a house of little girls,
and the blame rests on me.

I may not be gone,
but really I am.
My heads lost,
travelling worlds and over seas.
I'm simply a shell,
moving place to place,
never truly finding a spot to stay.
Words spill out of my mouth,
but really, I have nothing to left to say.
I may not be deceased,
but honestly, I would rather be.

sometimes when i think of you
i don’t know how to breathe.
not because of a fondness for you, no.
but because you ripped open the seams that i had worked so diligently to upkeep.
you’re an animal.
one by one you plucked at every string I had tied to me.
you took away my confidence, self esteem, and beliefs;
leaving me only with anxiety and a constant fear
that i would never be me again.
because the line drawn between what was me and what was you had been so faint.
every day i question if i think right or if i’m breathing correctly.
and then i panic and forget how to breathe.

i used to always be too much.
i talk too much. i laugh too much.
but somehow i was also always too little-
i wasn’t trying hard enough.
however, truly i was never the problem at all.
i gave everything i could.
i changed for you.
and i am so happy to finally say-
the real me isn’t dead.
without you around i have started to see me.
i goof around with reckless abandon and
i hype myself up.
i am cocky instead of self conscious- who knew cockiness would ever be a positive?
i am so incredibly happy. and im proud.
i am so proud of me- because i’m me and i’m not you.

I cut myself shaving,
it brought back those memories.
Just a tiny twinge of pain,
and my hand begins to shake.
I throw the razor away,
tears begin streaming down my face.
But as much as I falter,
I want to slide the blade down my wrist again
and feel that familiar ache.
I want my emotions to come pouring out,
Because they’ve been hidden away.
I want to be entranced by seeping blood,
as it soothes and brings me peace.
I cut myself shaving,
and I went back to that place.

What I put on my body is not up to you.
It’s not about you in the slightest.
So shut the **** up, and move on.
This is me. Whether you like it or not.
I’m not your little puppet.
My existence isn’t dedicated to you.
So *******.
I have my own struggles-
Stop making them about you.
They’re not.

My voice is small, but fierce.
My heart is fiery, but soft.
My eyes are cold, but honest.
My life is short, but real.

When I was younger
I'd have never thought
that life could be this cruel;
However, as I've grown older
I've realized many key facts,
one of which being that,
it seems to have
just as many joys as it has sorrows.

I love you, I hate you.
There is no difference.
Each phrase is simply three words,
That without action, mean nothing.
So, I guess we're nothing.

I'm a critic,
a professional if you will,
I can find a microscopic flaw
and write a review a paper long.
Each review gets a massive cut,
unfortunately it's not a profit,
but a decrease in my blood.
Yes, I'm a critic.
And I tear myself apart,
finding each and every bug
and bringing it to the front.
For who is best to critique,
but the one I know best.
You're right, I'm a critic.
I have numerous flaws.
Each one eats at me,
and I must critique them all.

Am I invisible?
It really feels that way.
I watch all these people interact all around
and I'm in the middle of it all
but though I'm right there
noone hears my voice
or senses my presence.
I'm just alone
it's just me,
but i'm surrounded by so many bodies.
And they're talking, smiling, laughing.
and I'm breaking and waiting
for someone to just acknowledge me.

I’m not pretty- I’m depressed.
I have cuts and scars lining my wrists.
I’m always sleeping or not at all,
dark circles rest under my eyes permanently.
I’m either too fat or too skinny,
and I can’t remember the last time I ate.
I fake a smile and a laugh,
but in conversation my mind is far away.
I wear dark oversized clothing to hide
because my insecurities keep me afraid.
I self isolate out of fear that I’ll mess it all up-
but I fear being alone.
I’m not pretty, I’m depressed.

I just cut my wrists up,
And I’m so mad,
Because I can’t even ******* **** myself right.

Everywhere I turn
there's no one.
And it's suffocating me,
this deafening emotional silence.
It's wrapping around me tightly,
refusing to let me breathe in the happenings around me.
Sooner or later,
it'll get too tight,
squeezing me into a void where I've no need for air.
And, I'll be happy to be there.

I remember the memory
Of that silver blade
Flitting across my pale skin.
I remember the pain,
And the emotional anguish,
That led me to commit the act.
I remember the repulsive thoughts
That led me to believe
that I was not enough.
I remember that it was easier,
To cut and have real pain,
Rather than something that wasnt concrete.
I remember how hard it was
To curb the addiction
That I had developed.
I remember it all.