If I kiss a woman, I am a lesbian
If I kiss a man, I am straight
I have this illogical need to scream at the heavens from atop a cliff
To scream I’m here in this world; I exist!
To say I am just bisexual is wrong
To say that certain aspect of me is the most oppressed is wrong
I am a woman, I am bisexual, I have tourettes, I have depression
I could go on for hours saying I ams
Saying statements that describe me
I am oppressed and stereotyped by the society I live in
So why is being bisexual the one I defend the most?
I asked myself this daily
Until I found the answer
Every other fact about me is undeniable;
I have a ******
I have diagnoses
That is tangible evidence
I have no sheet of paper with a signature of some fancy M.D.
Nor do I have some body part that labels me as bisexual
There is no definite way to tell if I am bisexual
Which makes it easier for people to say You’re just confused or It’s just a phase
And no matter how often I say it’s not; they won’t believe me
They don’t believe me because I don’t have the evidence they want
I don’t have an M.D.’s signature
I don’t have that ‘bisexual bodypart’
All I have is my own knowledge
And I don’t give a **** if that’s not good enough for you
Because I do exist
And I am here to stay

She smells like rain on a warm summers day and she tastes like blackberries freshly picked off the bush.
When she laughs, it makes the humming birds sound like nails on a chalkboard and i know how cliche this all sounds but she walks like an angel and i cant help but notice her defined collarbones
She makes me want to write about butterfly's and flowers instead of cut wrists and veins.
I tell her I love her. She replies with a kiss never confessing her love but I say it anyways because her smile creates this feeling in me I haven't felt since childhood and she needs to know she is loved. when I feel her bones on my hips I cringe she's so thin.
This disorder, it's gotten hold of her. Bruised knuckles-never confessing the reason she shakes
Anorexia and bulimia-I know this disease too well. It's chronic, it's an illness, it's a suicide attempt. She doesn't know it's killing her-she refuses to accept that she has it. But at night- I can barley see a lump when she's underneath the covers.
When she dies,  her coffin will be so light people will check to make sure there's a body in it.
Her bones are sharp-like scissors. And I wonder, does she use them to cut? Do they tear her skin open? Is her elbow used to fresh air?
I hold her hands. They're so cold. How can a person live like this? If I could, I would force her to eat.
She hates the mirror. If I could, I would make her see a beautiful person looking back.

I have a poets soul,
I am willing to bleed my heart out
Onto blank paper
But the prospect
Of speaking my mind
Leaves me shaking.

This soul
Is thousands of years old,
I have lived a lifetime after lifetime
And have died a hundred times over
Yet the thought of the grave
Shakes me, inside and out.

Hello, Nine-one-one? I'm calling to report a missing persons. She's been missing for more than forty-eight hours, and I'm beginning to become ill with worry. Yes, she's gone missing before, but she always seems to turn up again not long after. She's never been gone this long. I don't know what to do. She is everything to me; she creates new life, she brings me new ideas, she builds worlds no one else could create. She's the reason I can do what I am best at, and without her...I've become nothing. It feels like a piece of me has been ripped out and stomped on multiple times. I now wake up and feel as if there is no new life to be found, to be created, to cherish. There is no more beauty to worship. I can no longer bring alive an idea from my one of a kind mind because there are no new ideas to be born. Not an idea to flow from my brain and through a pen and on to some paper. There is nothing to inspire me because she is gone, and probably forever. Without her I'm lost. Her name is...Creativity, and I suspect Writers Block of taking her...