You can tell a lot about a person from the way they leave.

The walls are thin
and I can hear them
talking about me.

They don't bother to whisper,
shouting my faults
insults
teases
blaming me
for all that is wrong.

The walls are thin,
and even blasting my music
lovely lana
cannot drown out their curses.
but the walls don't really matter.

Funny,
people drive me home
and they say
they wait
to make sure I get inside safe,
but don't wait
to make sure I come out safe.
One foot in the door
and the insults come rushing
it's a battle to breath
only harsh cruel words are spoken
and my silence cannot lessen them.

Every breath I take
is deserving
of a slap in the face
and screams
inches from my heart
the air is cold
and tense
so I keep the lights off
so the only light
comes from my computer
where I can hide away
in fictional stories
and superheroes
wishing I was one of them.

The walls are thin
the walls don't matter
it's like they're not there at all
I'm always under attack
getting text messages at school
to let me know how bad I am
I have nowhere to run
nowhere to go
no place to stay
I'm stuck fighting every night
bones too weak from the fight
to get up each morning
the best I can do
is stay barely alive
seconds from tears
hoping one day
I can be liberated.

The band tightens
Around my chest
And I struggle to breathe.
Tears build up
Behind my eyes
But I cannot cry.
The room closes
In upon me
But I cannot move.
He asks me
What's wrong
But I can't find the words.
Locked in a cage
Of my own design
And I've lost the key.
Let me drink myself
Into oblivion
That I may forget
Where I am
Who I am
How I am

please remember, not to fall in love with a sad girl
not because she is broken beyond repair but because
she will remember every word you say to her,
every compliment, every joke and she will over analyze it all
and they will echo in her head late at night
being with her will be like walking on pins, you will
never know what to say or how to act without setting
off an untimely grenade because at the end
of the day that is what she is-
a grenade
a ticking time bomb waiting to explode and to destroy
and when she does blow up she will need someone to
help her pick up the pieces with an unyielding grace and
impossible patience, and that someone will not be you
because no matter what you tell her now,
you will soon get tired of cold nights and bony shoulders
and constantly saying yes you are worth it
you will get tired of it all
so please, do not fall in love with a sad girl we will enchant you
with our thoughtfulness and our perspectives on life
we will captivate you and trick you into thinking that you can fix us
but you can't, it is all just a labyrinth of suffering
and in the end you will end up being the pin that somehow
sets off the grenade

please do not fall in love with a sad girl,
*please do not fall in love with me

books
lets talk about books
lets talk about hushed confessions and secret
ridden metaphors and scandalous similes
books
lets talk about that book you bought me,
and it's heavily messaged paragraphs and obviously
coded phrases, lets talk about how you had all
but highlighted every single part that
applied to *us as if we could be compared
to a fictional world filled with teenage angst and the
false naivety that lies between the words
happily ever after
books.
books.
books.
lets talk about how i didn't need that book because
the story of us was already written with discreet
winks and inside jokes and phrases that nobody else
will be able to understand, lets talk about how i don't need
to compare you the ocean or the sun or a tsunami
lets talk about how you never had to tell me i was
beautiful like a pearl or how i was as meaningful to you as air
because at the end of the day,
the i love you's i'd tell you mean all of that and i like
to think yours did too
books.
instead of talking about books, lets talk about your soul filled laugh
and the teacher's terrible glare
lets talk about hate and jealousy and how i had felt when you told
me to leave
lets talk about anger and sadness and him and her lets talk about
happiness and how butterflies still fly to my stomach every time you
say my name

lets talk about us.

(h.l.)

I don't know how this
cycle of anxiety
took over my life.

I do not write about the joys of life
Or the calm and gentle quiet of nature.
There is too much faked joy in the world.

I do not write about love and loss.
I dare not tug at the fragile threads
That bind old wounds in rememberance.

I do not write about worldly truths
And the fallacies that we are often told.
I have forgotten them ― outgrown.

I do not write about my thoughts
For fear that I cannot find the words to fit
And that my mind will soon consume me.

I do not write ― I bleed.