I was young when I learned to sing
to the rhythm of fists
flying through the air
like birds too angry
with the season to call.
I was young when I thought a tune
could drown the sounds
of my mother’s sobs
crashing through hallways
in tidal waves and monsoon misery.
I was young when I carved
songs in the wallpaper
and into my delicate skin.
I turned bruises into syncopated beats
and scars into major scales.
My stepfather hated music
but I was an ornery child,
and I sang of joyous things
just to see if his soul could dance,
but instead,
I got two left feet in swift kicks.
When I was was young I was afraid of sticks
because I thought my body was a drum
to be beaten and battered
to a punishing rhythm.
I was young when I learned
that the taste of blood on my lip
was merely the flicker before the intermission;
the finale would be a grand display
of pomp, punch, and unlucky circumstance.
My mother was a tone-deaf drunk
who never learned to sing.
She belted begging in B flat octaves
like it was the only note she knew.
She wept an ocean of sorrow
as I sang my S.O.S.
“God, save our sinking ship.”
“God, save our sinking souls.”
“God, save our sorry stepfather from himself.”
And when I thought to cry,
I sang my little heart out instead.
I sang of devil's meeting end,
and I sang of daughter's finding love,
and I sang of mother's finding
strength enough to leave,
and I sang to the happy families
that only existed in sitcoms,
because my stepfather hated music
but I hated him far more.

Dear friend,

Is this what they call reading between the lines, as I desperately searched for signs that show I do not mean as much to you as you claimed me to?

Distance is a brutal thing, it stabbed us in the chest without a warning and as our hearts that used to lie so close starts drifting further apart, I cannot believe you still think i'm next to you. I am sorry for scratching at the letter you sent, I thought the lines might fall and the letters will rearrange into something I know. Were you writing to me at all? Your words do not speak to me anymore.

A few months ago, you were thrashing in your tears. You grabbed everything that could keep you afloat. I am terribly sorry, because I knew I became your everything. Today, you tried to find the pieces that you never saw me drop. I never said I wanted them back. What if I told you I never want to be whole again?

The road is warped and there is no way I could find my way back to you. Do not attempt to direct me when you never wore my shoes; do not say the stars shine for us when you were free from these sickening walls that exists only in my mind. I am sorry to hear you have paved the ground for us, for I will destroy what I set foot on. You should know I never had a home, and you have to see that we will part someday.

Quit believing in me because i remember how it feels when i realised all that i believed in was nothing near the truth-I will never allow you to compare me to the sun again, for it sets so steadily while i walk in halting footsteps; when it fades beneath the horizon, I am afraid you won't be able to cope with the cold that the night brings. It scares me, when you said I was your everything. Please, hold on to something real, that nothing and no one can take from you.

Do not pin all your hopes on me. I am not as strong as you.

when she speaks, her voice grates my skin, leaving the pale expanse of my back and shoulders raw and weeping. she’s five foot two and although she’s made of paper, she’s built of titanium and her fingers draw portraits in blood across my neck.

Six feet under,
trapped in a see through glass box,
people can see you,
they can hear you scream,
but they walk by as if they see nothing.

Six feet under,
buried beneath the pain,
hiding under the sorrow,
merciless cries come close to shattering,
the glass in which you are concealed.

Six feet under,
conceited, twisted lies,
cannot be forgotten or lost
hearts forever broken
as you see yourself

Six feet under,
the glass reflects the pain in your eyes
yet your stare is emotionless,
your heart ceases to beat
blood no longer pulses through your veins.

Six feet under,
You forget how to scream,
you lose your sense of sanity,
the glass swallows you up
lost, and always forgotten.

I was raised
on the ways of
the Wolf.
I applied these ways
to the best of
my ability.
Only to be set
loose to live amongst
the sheep.
Where
my ways were
considered savage
and unreasonable.

I turned to
the Poppy
and the *****.
I was insearch
of a temporary
sanctuary from
the  past misdeeds
replaying
themselves
inside my head.

Only at a later
age did I come
to understand
these wounds
that still
bleed leave
trails full of
wasted years,
lost lovers and
forgotten
hopes
and dreams.

I counted the
Black and Whites
as they passed
me by.
I tried to
melt into the
crowd.
The vigilance
and anger in
my heart refused
to walk amongst
the live stock.
For I was raised
as one with
brother Wolf.
I needed to
run on the outside
of their
invisible bindings.

I died everyday
for 3 years .
I pulled
from the *****
then turned to
the poem and
discovered
a new way
to torture
my  mind while
healing the heart.

I dropped
the mask I
had wore
for so many
of these
theatrical
years.

I set about
revealing hearts
blood and fractured
bone.
I ripped the
inside of
me out and
presented it
as treasure.
Only to find
the masses
are indeed
too much
like sheep.
Never
understanding the
manners of
the wolf....

Borderline Personality Disorder.

1. The other day I woke up and thought I knew who I was
I fell asleep and somewhere in between I lost myself
I lost the feeling in my stomach too
but we're still talking about how much we have in common.

2. My sweater got stuck on the hanger this morning
I started to rip it down
eventually I broke plastic and skin.
I haven't been back in my room since.

3. 12:06 PM Today my best friend came home and took most of our makeup
12:07 PM I messaged her and mocked our friendship.
12:07 PM She was in trouble with her grandma and had to hurry. She didn't know.
12:08 PM I broke down crying.

4. I woke up at 7:32 AM and took 4 shots
drank 2 beers
smoked four bowls
drank half a bottle of NyQuil and woke up the next day.
I have yet to figure out why.

5. I wanted to be a horse trainer for 9 years
then I decided I wanted to be an artist
worked on becoming a tattoo artist
matured into a writer
fell in love with photography
now I'm not even sure if I like school.

6. First scars appeared at 9
worst scars at 15.
First attempt at 10
almost wasn't an attempt at 14.

7. I've been happy the past few days
but I still want to **** myself
because soon I'll be drowning in depression
and succumbing to anxiety.

9. Once I got so bored
I thought myself into sorrow.
I didn't come out for a few hours
but by dinner I was laughing.

10. I used to be in love with a boy
but I didn't know
so I used whatever I could get
and now I'm alone.
I don't blame him.

11. I've mentally lost myself
as I screamed into the mirror
and it wasn't me talking to myself.
I don't really remember being there
but I was.

lately i've been gathering my feelings
and have been trying to put them into my poetry
but they don't exactly come out how i want them to

i have words in my mind
but as they process through to my fingers
i, all of a sudden, turn numb
as if the words have frozen in my veins

i wouldn't say i'm depressed
more like a little unsatisfied with the things that have been happening lately
or the things that haven't been happening

and everyone says to stay happy
but it's easy to say that
when you're not the one overthinking every night;
it's easy to say that because you're happy with your own life

but of course i'm not upset that you're happy
for all i know, you probably deserve to be
i'm just sick and tired of hearing that i should lighten up
from people who aren't constantly dodging the darkness
from people who aren't battling between what they want, have and need
and most of all, from people who think they know
exactly what i'm feeling
when they really have no idea

*a