when your heart is thumping
out of your chest
leaving brusies wher the thumps
falls on your chest
and your wearing the peices
it can't hold on your sleeve
you begin to wonder if this love,
this heartbreak will define this year
if the sorry they tell
will come to ring in your ears
an echo to cooling of the choles
will the sorry come to burn in your throat
with a sting you can't shallow
like the depression pills you take dry

If nothin else therapy
reminds me that I am still
a broken piece of a bowl,
that needs someone else to fix it

I kept saying:
no one loves me
no one thinks I'm beatiful

What I really meant:
I don't love me
I don't think I'm beatiful

These words are my veins on the page
I’ve pulled them out with a pen
taking care not to break them or bleed them
just for this poem

These metaphors are my skin
simply a sheet to hide the true meaning
I’ve made sure not to damage the layers
just for this poem

These similes are my hair
woven into different shapes
I got the whole hair, by the roots
just for this poem

This ink is my blood and tears
a mixture so fine it never bleeds on the page
I’ve mixed them both together
just for this poem

Just for this poem
I will give give my body
just for the last drop of ink
I will give you all my blood

I am learning
to not make my sadness
a metaphor

but this is not one of those times'

today my sadness is everything from the ceiling fan,
to the lonely moon in the sky

Me and happiness
are not holding hands yet
no,
we are more like an awkward couple
walking our fingers towards each other

You ask me questions,
Say more you say
Say more about suicide
Say more about your relationship with your parents
Say more
Say less my brain says
Say less about your feeling
more about your friends
Say less about your dreams
more about the season
Say less, the world will be a better place