Today my mother asked me if I was depressed. She proceeded to explain to me that she was worried because I never left my room and I just looked sad all the time. As she was explaining to me her reasoning, I thought about the way I've been feeling. How it felt as if everyday I was walking on quicksand. How it was getting harder and harder for me not to cry. How I would be constantly fighting an internal battle.
"Stay in bed, darling. Stay in bed."
"No I can't I have school today"
"Don't eat that. You're not worthy enough to eat"
"But I'm hungry I haven't eaten in 6 hours"
"Don't call your friends they don't care and they all hate you anyways"
"But I'm lonely"
I am constantly screaming at myself.
I am constantly fighting a battle that I feel hopeless in.
It's getting harder and harder to breathe everyday and it *****.
I hate it. I hate it. I hate it.
Pretending has become a habit of mine.
I don't enjoy lying to myself and others.
Every once in a while I tend to break into my parents liquor drawer because I like the feeling I get when I sip *****.
It makes me feel light and airy, and for just a couple of hours, it makes me forget how much I hate myself.
I don't feel time passing by anymore.
I don't know the difference between night and day because everything is just a big blur.
I've lost all feelings and emotions except sadness.
"Are you depressed?" My mother asks me.
"No."

*(b.c.)

You are the flashbacks
I would love to be
eternally tortured with
~

Isn't it odd
how beautiful the
image of blood
flowing off your
hand can be?

Slowly,
Take one,
Take another,
Take ten million,
Just breathe.
There's a world of creativity,
Growing within the confines,
Of your critical veins,
And to slice those of which,
House the very essence of yourself,
Is a disservice to your being.
Slowly,
Take one,
Take another,
Take enough,
Just breathe.
You have purpose,
That seeps through the,
Light you bring to the room,
When you laugh.
And to silence that,
Is to **** your soul.
Slowly,
Take one,
Take another,
Take them all,
Just breathe,
Sweetheart, you deserve it.

Kiss me until I'm drunk  
and slurring my words.

Kiss me until I am stumbling
and tripping.

Kiss me until my breathe leaves
along with the world.

Kiss me until I forget my name
and my past

Kiss me for as long as you would like.
Just kiss me.

This one goes to the real poets.
To those who decide to carry the world on their own.
To those who carry hell in their head and a graveyard of lost love stories in their heart
To the brave ones who fight darkness with darkness.
Tho those who the only answer they seek from a god is if there's eternal life for their loved ones, because they know there's no space for them in that paradise.
To those who know that suffering is the most humane feeling there is.
To those who loved and hated the wrong person.
This goes to Lorca isolated, hiding in a closet in New York.
To Unamuno craving to believe in something impossible.
To Quiroga drinking the poison of his sorrow at a hospital.
To Becquer and Espino for dying so young.
To Neruda for cheating on himself so many times.
To Machados' lost spirit.
To Marquez and his melancholic ******.
To Poe's tormented soul and his raven.
To Shakespeare and his Juliet.
To Dante and his story of woe.
This goes for the only beings who can live with a hell inside of them, and still manage to write heavenly things for those in need to read.
This one's for us.