Day 1: I want to tear my skin off. My heart is beating so fast i can barley breathe. I feel so filthy.
Day 2: I can't believe this. I don't want to be here. Why did this happen? Why did I let this happen?
Day 5: I guess I drank too much and my friends were to drunk to stop me.
Day 10: I can't face my friends, I can't live my life.
Week 3: No one knows. He hasn't said a word.
Week 6: It happened again, I was sleeping and he did it again. Why did I stay the night? Why didn't I go straight home?
Week 7: He left and kissed me goodbye. I don't know how to feel.
Week 10: My life's out of control, I can't believe whats happening.
Month 5: My boyfriend knows. But not all details. Just thinking about it, makes me want to take a shower.
Month 8: I finally came clean to my friends. They're appalled. They hate him now. I still feel filthy. I can't get his smell off my body still.
Month 11: The anniversary is soon. What am I going to do?
Year 1: I haven't spoken to him in months. I haven't thought about it in days. I still feel as if hes on top of me, why can't I wash him away?

Its an uphill battle with myself and others. Some days I can't get out of bed or even feel like breathing.
But I try not to let him get to me. Because if he sees my weakness from what hes done,
He's won.

i dont feel anything anymore.
when the tears come,
out they just pour.
this is hell if there is one.

let the tears spill,
onto the cold floor they fall.
nothing more do they fill,
than the nothingness they call.

a soft whimper's lilt
does nothing more than meant,
damaged world's tilt,
reveals our lament.

let the tears pour,
more they can do.
liquid discharge of life,
fallen onto ashen dust,
the dirt filled with dna you held,
dispell this world of its rust.

watch the colors as they meld
to create a beautiful path
bundles of happiness
bloom in the aftermath.

what happened to the girl who would always twirl everywhere,
who never truly cared about opinions?
only from the loneliness was she scared.

what happened to the mind sets that we always met?
we always went straight to work, ready with a hair net.

now, im afraid that they're dead.
the happiness from which they thrived was stolen.
their existence only derived from meds.
only an illusion was their golden.

I hate my poetry

we buy them
knowing they'll **** us in the long run.
she believes him
knowing he isn't the right one.
he takes them
even though he'll never compare to a thousand suns.
why?
easy.
we need to be happy.
why?
then we wouldn't be alive.
We hold onto that little bit of light,
and forget that looming sense of the dark,
to feel just the teensiest bit right.
the teensiest bit happy
finally putting up a fight.
We hold onto that
to stay alive
even if we know
that it'll **** us
anyway.

all the memories i had,
all the memories we had,
in all the times we've been through,
why are we still sad?
the picture we took last summer,
now it seems too far
why do the feelings linger,
if all they leave are scars?
my feelings wound upon your finger,
my happiness seems drowned,
my self, oppressed,
and my confidence, diminished.
through my eye,
the stitcher's sword,
it halts to a finish,
the final battle cry,
pictureboard.