When I see you again,  
I’ll wait from afar,  
watching, hoping,  
to see if you’ll come to me.  
Even just a wave  
a small sign  
that I still exist to you.  

When I see you again,  
I won’t talk to you first.  
I’ll wait,  
even if it breaks me,  
even as I wait for something  
I know might never come.  

If you text me now,  
I won’t answer.  
I’ll wait,  
just like I wait every day  
for the answers you never give.  

I’ll wait until I realize  
how foolish I’ve been,  
and I’ll answer anyway.  

I’ll try to shake off the truth  
that you don’t care,  
but it lingers  
because if you did,  
you would’ve tried.

I’m not mad,  
I’m just sad  
so empty inside,  
but I swear,  
I haven’t always been like this.  

I was Daddy’s little girl once,  
sweet, naive,  
careless and happy.  

Then I grew up  
and the sadness grew with me.  
I couldn’t let it out,  
so I bottled it all.  

Being mean became my mask,  
my way to hide the pain.  
It still is.  

But now I wonder  
what’s the point anymore?

My biggest fear?  
Not being able to find love,  
because I’m too hard to love.  

Maybe it’s because I’m ugly,  
maybe because I’m not funny,  
maybe I’m just a horrible person,  
because I don’t love myself enough.  

I wonder if that’s the reason,  
if that’s why no one stays.  
Maybe I’m just too much,  
or not enough in all the ways.  

But maybe, deep down,  
I’m just waiting for someone  
to show me I’m worth loving  
even when I can’t show it to myself.

This time,  
my poems aren’t about you,  
but about me.  

Tonight,  
I’m showing my scars,  
showing the pain,  
writing the words I can’t say aloud.  

The old me would’ve been on the floor,  
crying,  
begging God to take her away.  
I still do,  
and I don’t think that’ll ever stop.  

But the new me writes about it.  
Not fully  
but she’s trying to be real,  
at least with herself.  

Not with her friends though,  
she doesn’t want to lose them.  
So maybe I didn’t change after all,  
but I’m trying.  

But nothing really changes,  
except my age,  
and my friends.  
Everything around me changes for the better,  
while I stand here,  
frozen in time,  
unable to move.  

But maybe that’s for the better.

I'm scared someone will finally see the sad girl I am.  
I'm scared they'll realize the smile I wear every day is fake,  
like everyone else around me.  
I'm scared they'll look down,  
see my arms  
those arms didn’t ******* deserve these scars.  

I'm scared they'll hate the girl I really am,  
happy one second,  
broken as hell the next.  
I'm scared they'll see me whole  
or what's left of me,  
the parts I didn’t cut away.  

Maybe I’m just not meant to be close to people.  
But I hope one day I’ll find someone,  
someone who’ll see these scars  
and not ******* judge me.  
I don’t need them to understand the pain,  
the kind of pain that made me do this.  
I just need them to be there,  
standing beside me,  
promising me it’s gonna be alright  
even if it’s not.  
Even if it never will.

Maybe drunk words are better than sober thoughts.  
When I write, and the words just ******* won’t come,  
fear holds them back  
fear of being real, of showing what’s really inside.  

I drink, and drink,  
alone in my room,  
no friends to share the glass with,  
no one to talk to.  

So I write my poems,  
pour my soul into these lines,  
and post them here,  
hoping someone will listen,  
hoping the silence won’t feel so ******* loud.  

Maybe someone will hear,  
maybe I won’t feel so ******* alone.

These poems I write
they're pieces of me,  
maybe the only real me.  

You read them  
without my knowing,  
stripped my intimacy bare.  

I showed you what I chose,  
but you wanted more,  
took more.  

Now I stand here,  
naked,  
exposed.