Live like an unappreciated stranger
in your own house.
Become the careless talk at family dinners
about the disappointing child
and pretend like it was all a joke
and slowly lose yourself with every
echo of drunken laughter.
Look into the eyes of someone you love
and realize how you can't feel anything
other than dread.
Become the lustful thoughts of someone
you can't love
and watch them cut themselves
into pieces for you, when
in the end
all you can say is a pitiful "thank you,
but I'd rather be a lonely wreck
drifting across the sea."
Ask yourself to be found
in a map with no direction
and with nothing but your
faulty heart to guide you away
Pretend like the music
disappears into the background
of the screenplay your life has become
and the screen slowly turning black.
Find the dread
in your own heartbeat.
Take off your clothes
and see how you sewed every misgiving
into your skin like a story you
never want forgotten
and marvel at how bad your stitching is-
can't even hold yourself together.
Hear the sound of the rain
and wonder why
the grey clouds of your heart
never go away with the same.
I feel like ****.
And physics is turning my head around.
you said you don't want to hurt me
yet words lash like a whip
rending flesh from the heart
what is done, cannot be undone
words cannot be unspoken or unheard
unapologetic and cold
there is no bandage for the wounds
as the blood falls from my eyes
in sulfur and ash
Here's a thought
I'd like to know
If you could feel suicidal
Without being depressed
Does that make sense?
Does making sense even matter
If that's how it feels?
I know I'm happy
And I know it's real
I'm surrounded by the people I love
And I've found love in the things I do
But I see a bridge
And the only thing I can think of
I look at cars on the busy streets
From the passenger seat
One of them will just so happen
To hit me, maybe
Smiling is genuine
I don't fake faces, it's just not me
Yet in the safety of my home
I'm not safe in my own head
I don't know how
To ask for help
They'll say I'm fine
And I am fine
But I'm not
And I know it
i wanted you to love me on purpose.
faces like yours aren't meant for touching
and i'm beginning to think that closed-casket funerals were created for you
and sometimes the overwhelming desire to share something of yourself with someone--with anyone--is too much to bear
and suddenly i understand every spraypainted feeling under every freeway
or sharpie sentences scribbled in bathroom stalls
or muttered comments or notes in library books or songs on repeat played a little too loud
and i understand why pretty girls write stories on their arms
you were never the type to tell the truth
you were always talking
you never understood the way i looked at my feet when you laughed or how i spoke in hushed tones
some days are better than yesterday and some days make me question tomorrow
some words make me question you
today i wonder what the bigger sin is
is it your lying?
or my hopeless belief in words i know aren't true?
words are meant to be spoken and hands are meant to be held and love and sorrow and anger are meant to be felt and enjoyed and EXPERIENCED
and everything has meaning
everything but you