I guess you could call it poetic how by the age of 12 I had no recollection of what happiness tasted like on my tongue. Some would say it was tragically beautiful.
But it was not poetic, nor was it beautiful,  but it was tragic. It was so very, very sad, and that sadness is only doubled now that people see sorrow as glorious.  It is not glorious. It is not strength. It is a lump of iron in your chest and stomach and it eats you from the inside, out and you have no right to think that blood stained wrists are anything other than tragic. So very,  very tragic.

someone asked me what my type of guy was
and I pictured, first, nerdy guys, with big glasses and messed up hair who are tall and gangly
then I pictured pixie-cut girls who are small and cute and elfin
then I saw girls in flowy skirts whose shoulders look narrow enough to fold in on themselves
then I saw hippie men with long curly hair and a love that is languid and enveloping in nature
I saw surfers, writers, musicians, not artists, no preppy boys
I saw people in black and white and I saw the change of color in your eyes
I saw people playing guitar and yelling at the top of their lungs
I saw us in a sunny beat-up car with the windows down
I saw people who'd hold my hand and then grab my ***
I saw people whose minds arched to the heavens and then somehow back to me
I saw someone on my level, an equal match, the completion of the circle
a radio signal that had a bit of static before it was united
eyes that focus and hearts that ignite
just emotional enough to deal with me
and not emotional enough to let me stay stagnant
I saw someone who would push me, break me, teach me
and I'd be pushing, breaking, and teaching right back
and we'd always be with other people
and moving constantly, improving ourselves
because we'd have independent lives and wouldn't need constant affirmation
however
we really wouldn't be complete
or completely satisfied
without each other
and our souls
would have a bungee cord
elastic
stretched between us.

Is that the lowest moment?
When you don't dare to wear shorts because of the scars that cover your legs.
And then you're sitting there at the dinner table with your family,
And they keep on telling you to eat,
But all you mutter is "I'm not hungry",
When you actually are.
You're starving but your image is worth more than a meal.
You eat a few bites just to shut them up,
And then run to the bathroom to rid yourself of it,
To make sure you can fit into those jeans,
The ones that could stand you losing another 5 pounds.
You get used to the lies of:
"I'm not hungry"
"I ate before I came"
And "oh yeah I'm fine, just tired".
Is that your lowest point,
When the only food you're feeding yourself is lies?