I see him every single day. The longing inside of me aches for his acknowledgement. His knowing of my existence.But truly I should hate him. He is a monster after all.  I hide in the shadows of halls and argue with myself. There are people at my school who cannot let others joy pass through their sights. It’s as if their desire is to make everyone else weak so therefore they can maintain their power. But what is power that is taken from negativity? I will never know so therefore I will never speak up. I can’t speak up. No one will ever hear me or see me. No one even notices me unless I fall and cry or break when the teacher calls on me. I’m their daily amusement. My hands are always clenched in agony and my heart is always being ripped into shreds from vain conquests. Despite the tear in my throat my heart beats for the ailing souls of the forgotten. It knows what the others don’t see and hear. Despite my agonizing breathes of air I’m still alive today. How I can still walk with my breaking bones and how I can still see through the foggy lenses society has bestowed upon me is truly beyond me.

I cannot allow myself to speak. Speaking takes energy. I don’t have enough energy to simply express my being and then have my voice heard. My voice is quiet and raspy with edges of cut mirrors and thorny rose bushes. I used to be a lemon tree sweet and sour but golden and sunny as most people expected from me and came to realize and to be simply put that was their recognition. But then the hazy storms of dread pricked my fragile fingers and brought forth blood of ruins. I was ruined. But at first they didn’t care. They wanted to see me for the way they knew me and not the way I had became. How was it fair that she got the recognition from her ex and not I? Not everyone knows of my full story simply because of the sacred secrecy I have been cursed with. He has banished all thoughts of fantasy and left me as a beggar for mercy.

Broken and cut open by the exterior unfolding the delicate fragile sorrow hidden from the eggshell layers of despair. Drowning tears sweep through the underlying contemplative coldness of the frozen truth. The silent agonized memory laying in controlled measures of entities sowed in the blankness is almost as demanding as the person’s loud screams of aching pain. The mind crazed by the rushing blood of darkness and turbulence. Hurdled waves of woven misery unfold the bleak torture of catastrophes. The empowering anguish fills the hollow room of affliction borrowed from the ripped edges of damaged spines. They swore they could keep the fleeting emotion of happiness levitating ambiguity and concavity. But no. So many lonely depressing nights of wandering delirious theoritizations have occurred.