I met a boy a few years ago.
His eyes were always searching for something lost,
but he never knew what he was looking for.

We became acquaintances,
and after a while,
dare I say,
we became friends.

He never talked much about his past,
but I was able to read his absent eyes,
the way he never made eye contact for too long,
or the way he forced himself away from anything
he might get attached to.

His eyes are always just as anxious as mine.

He is sitting right next to me now,
just as lost in the professor’s lecture as I am,
and he’s writing too,
pencil feverously scribbling whatever thoughts
cloud his mind in this moment.

It’s been four years since I met this boy,
and I have never been able to figure out his angle.

There must be something he wants,
some reason he still talks to me.
No one has stayed by my side for this long.

Could it be possible that he actually cares about me?
No,          of          course          not,
That’s an idiotic thing to think.

But why else would he still be around me
when all I have been good for are
learning how to bake the perfect cupcakes together,
taking photos of the local wildlife,
and late night conversations about the stars?

The men I have known don’t care about those things.
The only thing that matters to them is
what’s between my legs,
and nothing else.

So could this one be different?

Could someone actually care about me?

I am currently sitting in class.
My body is screaming to break out
of this monotonous cycle.
If my heart beats any harder, I fear it might actually
b    u    r    s    t.

The professor is speaking but
the only words I hear are yours.
Each combination of letters and syllables that had escaped your lips
drenched me in this thick, venomous bile and
I can still feel it sloshing around in my boots now.

You took my credulous soul,
tricking me into believing you were good, you were pure,
and then ****** every drop of energy and sanity
you could get out of me
before leaving to drain another victim.

This is not the first time this has happened, either.

The amount of times I have been left for dead
has torn down my confidence and
burned my self-respect
into a crisp.

You labeled my body, “a piece of meat”,
its only use to pleasure and satisfy.
Having that beaten into my head,
literally,
I began to actually believe it.

My opinions did not matter, so my mouth should not speak.
Anytime people communicated with me was on their own time,
when they would get something out of it,
whether it be diffusing boredom, asking favors, ***, etc.
And I would give it to them,
all the while silently begging that their intentions
were not all about them.
But when they got what they wanted, they left.

What I learned-
people             will             only             use             you.
-and that is what I believed was normal
for the longest time.

Trust is difficult when the
only question running through your mind
asks what everyone's angles are.
Because everyone you
had gotten close to,
had one.

At different points in my life, different events changed my life for both better and worse. This is a collection of letters to myself throughout different periods of my adolescence.


    Dear Mia, you are nine years old, and you just lost your grandfather, the only one who truly understood you and all of your quirks, that later on people will call ‘social’ and ‘generalized’ anxiety.
Not only that, but your family moved out of your childhood home just months after. I know things are really confusing and painful right now, and that you can’t hide in your mom’s closet anymore, because this house is different.
You search for new hiding places, trying and failing to find a new sense of security. You will not find this until you are thirteen, so please stop searching so hard.
Losing your grandfather feels like the end of the world, because this is your first loss. Honey, it will not be your last.
You’ll get used to it.


    Dear Mia, you are ten years old, and you have just met your Nana’s ex-husband. He asks you to call him grandpa. This makes you very uncomfortable, because you already had a grandpa, and he’s dead now. You do not have to do anything you do not want to do.
Do not call him grandpa, and do not try to get close with him. All he will do is use you to trick people into believing he is getting better, that he’s clean.
He isn’t, and he will never be. He has **** and ******* stashed in different parts of his house; stop going there.
You are too young to know what they smell like, but you do anyways.


     Dear Mia, you’re finally a teenager! But you assume this makes you a woman now. You are not, and I urge you to not do anything that makes you feel uncomfortable.
Your favorite uncle just shot himself and your mom refuses to ever get out of bed. She never looks you in the eyes anymore. You feel like a part of you has died- whatever you do, do not try to fill that emptiness in your heart with a boy.
Especially not him.
It will not help. If anything, it will make you feel a thousand times worse, and you will never be able to shower enough times to get the feeling of his filthy hand prints off of your body.
I know you want to, but please do not use a blade to try and carve out where he touched.


    Dear Mia, you’re fifteen, and the next couple years will be the most painful. The only thing you will be able to think about is suicide. Your uncle’s and Connor’s, and the attempts of James, Katelyn, and Kait’s.
Maybe even your own?
I am begging you to not steal your dad’s scotch bottle. It tastes disgusting, and it won’t help anything; all it will do will create yet another bad habit.
You didn’t listen to me before, and you started cutting.
Please stop.
It will only make you more paranoid than usual, and the scars that mark your body will only make you even more self conscious (yes, that’s possible, unfortunately).


    Dear Mia, suicide is not the answer. Stop.


    Dear Mia, you finally got some professional help. Depression and anxiety crept into your mind and made themselves a home, but pills will help.
Do not refuse them, it will only make things bad again. Also, this girl has a crush on you. You’ve been friends for a while, and she kissed you last night.
Do not date her.
You are only lonely; you do not actually have romantic feelings for her. She has mental issues that will only mess up your recovery.
She is manipulative and possessive.
Do. Not. Date. Her.


    Dear Mia, you are seventeen. After dating that girl, you felt completely worthless. You are not worthless. It may not seem like it, but you have so many friends that care for you; you will realize this soon, because that girl is about to become nasty and violent, and these friends will help you stand your ground when standing your ground seems impossible. She will move in a few months and although she will try to contact you, you will not answer.
You will be able to breathe again; I promise.


    Dear Mia, it is 7:55 on a Friday morning. You are able to get out of bed again. You are able to do your makeup without crying in the mirror. I’m proud of you. It took you a very long time to be able to do this, I know, but it was worth it. Things still hurt, but friends are there to lessen the pain. Thank them.

A swaying
     wheat
          field
               fills the frame,
refusing to be overlooked in all its vastness.
Coarse,
     golden
          grains
               caress her skin,
giving off the same sensation as a kitten's kiss.
Her
     tightly
          bound bun,
                now loose and messy,
free brunette strands from their prison.
An
     old,
          abandoned house
               contrasts against the salmon sky,
craving to be explored by a curious soul such as herself.
Please
     come
             *in.

You are broken.
Constellations for a body, glimmering stars
playing connect-the-dots to create
a beautiful yet imperfect human form.
Black holes for eyes,
breathing in memories,
but anything positive loses itself in the abyss,
leaving you with nothing but past pain and heartache.


I am such a wreck.
Supernovas for a mind, always
exploding into a frenzy of anxious thoughts.
Pluto for a personality,
being overlooked, underappreciated, and pushed away.


But when looking through a telescope,
all anyone can see is cosmic, celestial hope.
I think between our luminescence and darkness,
We’d make a lovely mess.

poetry
used to rush out of me
like raging angry tides
but now that
my demons are sleeping
i cannot seem to remember
how to write

When I was younger
people told me
I had potential surging
through my veins
and at the age of thirteen
I started using a razor
to help me see what they saw.

How do I write about you when you're still a mystery to me?