nobody cares unless you’re pretty or dying
nobody cares unless you’re pretty or dying
nobody cares unless you’re petty or dying

well,
no one will care if you don’t let them in
they’re not mind readers they’ve got to know that you’re hurting, first

nobody cares unless you tell them you’re crying
nobody cares unless you tell them you’re dying
people will care if you’re not pretty or dying

let them in, open up
tell them that you’re feeling too much
feel free to be charmless
they’ll love you regardless
i promise that someone will care if you’re not pretty or dying

you dig and dig
then sit and cry
because, oh god, why
have you been left here to die?

digging a grave and claiming to fall
when really you jumped
won’t get you anywhere at all

YOU LOVE HER AND YOU FORGOT ABOUT ME.
HOW COULD YOU?
HOW THE HELL COULD YOU RUN TO THE GIRL WHO EVERYBODY LOVES
AND LEAVE BEHIND, SO CRUELLY,
THE ONE THAT NO ONE WILL GET TO KNOW?

I was an idiot to not have seen this coming.
Honestly, what the **** did I think I was;
Desirable? - ha.
And how naïve of me to think
that a child like you would have the decency to
look past my scars and ask me if I was okay.

You’re a pain
and an ***
and nowhere near deserving of my affection.

...so why do I still feel this way about you?
How could I still let myself hope like hell that maybe,
just maybe,
*you’d want me.

We were thirteen and perfect for each other. We had the same sense of humor and only survived those heinously awkward pre-teen parties by laughing at jokes that no one else understood. We used to play-fight like siblings and run after each other tossing synthetic threats back and forth. I was faster than him, though he wouldn’t say so, and would catch him often - but he always surrendered nicely with a sweet little kiss.
    At that time we were young, inexperienced and painfully shy, so our kisses were commonly swift and polite – never anything Nicholas Sparks would appreciate – but there was something about those contemporary-type kisses that stirred something inside my child’s consciousness. Our lips caused ripples in my belly that tempted me to believe that perhaps this was more than just a tweeny courtship.

A fair amount of months passed before her eventually kicked me off the wagon. Prep school was over and we were off to high school – him to a private boarding school and me to a public school the soccer moms “would rather not talk about.” I was devastated and have yet to open myself up to anyone like I did to him. You see, I had broken off such a large piece of my figurative heart that I didn’t have enough left to share with anyone else.

Now I’ve a high school’s worth of non-existent Valentines roses and I've yet to leave the faetal position.

I've been talking about it for so long that my pool of friends there to console me has shriveled up into an unhealthy puddle of nothing. Hell, I’ve drank up so much of that resource that I may have left a dent where it used to stand. Picture me sniffing around a dried up pile of nothing fruitlessly looking for someone to tell my sob-story to – it's not far off.

Now here’s the gold;
I suppose I had set my standards so high that I’ve not let anyone else so much as see the bar let alone challenge it. That or my first boyfriend was so utterly terrified by my company that he wrote an article about me in the Guy Code and I now walk around with a blinking sign on my forehead. Either way, I’m as lonely as anything and have reached the point where I think of fictional characters as more actual than many of my fellow humans.

Tumblr help me.

Sometimes you have to force yourself to be happy to be happy.
And sometimes you have to deal a second chance
- or a third or forth -
after they wandered off
because they're here now.
And it's now that matters.
Not yesterday, though however painful,
and not tomorrow, no matter how terrifying.

Nothing.
No thing.
Help me
please.
I’m faulting.

Have you ever been sat on by sadness?
I'll tell you now it's not as comedic as it sounds.
I am being sat on
by ceaseless weight centred on my chest.
It is built of everything I have made of your words.
It is built of everything I have made of your lack of words.
It is made up of what was once inside of me,
that now sits outside of me.
It has the weight of a small child
and the solidity of a rock.
It sits on my chest and moves the blood to my head
and the air through my lungs.
It squeezes its toxic weight into every single one of my cells.
It wants to come back in,
Because apparently it doesn't like the outside world much either.

With your dignity at the bottom of a bottle
you shared with me your sweet nothings.
We weaved around secret feelings
and waded through shallow fears.

Warmed by jungle juice we growled at misconceptions
and spoke in cirlces, and circles and circles.
We wandered off paths long lost
and discovered life's finalities
- and finally -
we found our way home.

I’m not felling poetic
- just lonely.
So I’m writing to get rid of some **** feelings.
There are other ways, you know,
to "relive the pressure"
the thumping
the vacuum

but people don’t like those friends I've made;
the friends who sit on  my wrist
whispering sweet acknowledgements...

You see,
I know that what pokes at my consciousness is real
- because they are.

*Do you understand?

Perhaps I built you up to be more than you are;
You’re open arms that were supposed to let me in
are nothing more than a barricade trained to keep me out.
You’re supposed-to-be-sweet smile
twists into a smirk that makes my heart shrink.

I thought you were different
silly, silly me.

Be happy.
Be happy!
Because they'll leave you if you're not
and then it will only be worse.

Don't think about it.
Fight it.
Be happy.

Infatuated with your scars,
you’re picking at the scab.
You never wanted them to heal
because you’re happy to be sad.

Sweet lips don't dull your words,
just as those bright eyes don't conceal your intentions.
I am not some play thing
for you amuse yourself with
when you feel it fit
- or when your ego is bruised.

Learn to pick yourself up without me,
as I have done
- without  *you

It's hard to face a monster that you've created.
You can't hold it out on your palm:
"Here it is - the thing that's destroying me."

It's nothing you can speak of
and nothing you can show
- so how I do I tell you that I'm not okay?

There's a creature inside of me
That sits dormant against the back of my brain.
It grasps my stomach with one hand
and stops my tongue with the other.

"Just tell me what you're feeling."
It's not that simple.

Legs intertwined.
Hands
attempting to further the points we were trying to make.
Our faces were close
but something was closer.

We were picking out lights from the sky.

We turned them into words that had never passed out lips.
We were somethings
in a world of nothings.

He had really nice hair.

We were nothing.
All that can be taken away from whatever that was
is a summarised lesson on what love is not.

When I look up at the sky
I see an immense something,
made up of masses little things
that’s too big to fit in a frame.

I look into a throbbing bead of white
and focus hard
I cant understand how such a small nothing
can make up
(and be made up)
so many massive somethings.

Think of your skeleton,
and think of what’s wrapped around it.
Now close your eyes and feel its weight.

Delete it.

Delete every one of your two-hundred-plus bones.
begin in your core;
your spine
your neck
your ribs.

Feel yourself implode.

Your centre’s now a black hole
a void.
Your lungs collapse first
squeeeezing
the air into a mist
that hovers over the alien vacuums tug.

Your intestines are untangling
and your lips are tingling.
You’re disintergrating

no,
evaporating.

Feel every atom of your existence fading…
Can you feel it?
Can you feel it?

Never have I met you,
and never will I know
what you look like in the morning
or what you look like when you go.

But the tale that’s yet told here
Holds a secret that’s yet shared;
Of the daydreams which we live in
- which are far, and few, but fair.