(This isn't a poem so don't even bother)
Because here's the deal
I hate it when I want to write about things that scare me, my fears, my past
And I have to be worried that people on here will read it and wonder if I'm okay? Wonder if I need help, feel pity towards me? I don't know if they would
Because I promise you all I am somehow 10x stronger because of the **** that's gone down
And maybe it's not that much ****, but it's a lot to me
A lot to recreate how I think, move, feel, sense
I just want to be able to talk about this and not get those stares like "oh my god this girl must be messed up because of that. She must be depressed or something"
I know what depressed is
I know what cutting is
I know anxiety is
But that's not me
That's a girl who got lost
Very lost.
She isn't and never will be me. Ever.

I hate how I think I'm better off
And I end up ******* myself
I hate how almost every memory of sophomore year is painful.
Some are beautiful pains
And some are dark dark pains.
I hate how I have to filter myself on this site
I hate how I'll write something and end up deleting the whole thing because what's the point of posting something on private of I'm the only one who will read it.
I hate how I can love people so much,
So so much
But I end up hardening up about it
Speechless and slightly ******
I hate how no one will actually read this, or if they do they won't read it slowly
I hate how I'm using hate because I don't think I truly hate anything except sin and evil.
I want sunshine and stupid cliche picnics and board games and skating and everything I say I'll do but never end up doing
And I can't say I love you to anyone enough to express god I love you
And I'm sorry you haven't heard it
And I promise I'll work on it

you realize how much you truly miss someone when something happens- good or bad- and the only person you want to tell is the one person who isn't there.

You lost half of me in July.
I just took back the rest in March.

whatever souls are made of, I'd love to watch them
in their bare bones and swirls of color
darken, burn, and mold together
rather than just our faces. I'd like to sit
and observe each orb of love and hatred,
some consumed and lost to apathy, some bright
one way or the other, I'd love to see what happens
every time I meet someone new, every time
I lose someone old. I'd love to watch my heart flicker
and to know for sure the right or wrong by the
light I show the world- I'd love to see it, pure,
so that it's no longer a war of lies and masks and faces
I'd love to hold the raw, stinging, spitting essence
of someone close to me, so they can't deny it anymore
and I can't deny it anymore- the world would be good,
I swear, if we'd all just let go and open our doors
(although I'd like to see yours- I don't know if I could.)

Love lasts about seven years. That's how long it takes for the cells of the body to totally replace themselves.

I wonder whose arms I would run and fall into if I were drunk in a room with everyone I have ever loved