Go ahead.
Take my razors.
Send me to counseling.
I’ll be impressed
If it does a **** thing.
I am my problems.
I am a problem.
I just wish you could see
How comfortable I am in my misery,
How ready I was to die,
And how even though I lied,
I truly meant the best for everyone
But myself.
So go ahead.
Do what you wish.
Just know that I’m not expecting a change.

We were 5 years old when you asked me to marry you on the bus ride to school.
You told me you loved me more than anyone
And that you wanted to be with me forever.
We were 10 years old when you came over my house to play power rangers.
You always wanted me to be the pink one,
But I said no because my favorite color was yellow.
We were 12 years old when you got your first girlfriend.
You broke up with her a week later,
But I still cried when I found out.
We were 14 years old when you shared your headphones with me on that same ******* bus ride to school.
You wouldn't let me pick the song
Because you insisted I would like whatever you chose.
(And, believe it or not, I did.)
We were also 14 years old when we stopped talking.
You sat in the back of the bus,
I sat in the front,
And you listened to your music by yourself from that point on.

We were 18 years old when you took my virginity.
You were looking for an easy lay,
And I was just looking for a place to lie down.
The alcohol running through my veins
Told me it would be special if it was with you because deep down
I think I always knew that you were the first boy
I ever truly loved.
But when you pushed yourself inside of my drunken body,
Pleasing yourself as if I wasn't even there and then dashing off the moment you were done,
Leaving me naked and unclothed,
I knew that love was never mutual.

Maybe that's why I'm still writing about it eleven months later.

We blame society for everything.
We fault magazines for turning innocent teenage girls
Into anorexic beauty queens.
We point fingers at the paper thin actresses on TV screens
For bringing bulimia victims to their knees,
******* down their throat as they cough up that last bit dinner,
Along with the guilt and shame that comes with it.
We blame society, but we are society.
Who wrote those magazines?
Who created the ridiculous standard that you can only fit in
If your bones are showing through your skin?
Hunger is just a feeling; thin is a skill.
Your stomach isn’t growling because you’re starving.
No! It’s applauding you on a job well done,
On another day of nothing but celery sticks and diet coke.
Who cares if all of your hair falls out?
Who cares if you get dizzy every time you stand?
Who cares if the desire to be thin and meet this sick standard of beauty
Is slowly killing you, taking another piece of that innocent teenage girl
And turning her into a skeleton?
We, as a society, don’t care.
The magazines won’t stop printing
Because another high school kid got carried away.
Extreme, even deadly diets are a thing of today,
And yes, yes, they’re here to stay.
Sometimes eating healthy and exercising just aren’t enough.
Desperate times call for desperate measures,
And under this kind of pressure,
It’s hard not to give in.

I try not to think about the future
Because, to be honest, it terrifies me.
It’s scary to think that
In a few short months,
You’ll just be a memory.
It’s even scarier to think that
In a few short years,
I might forget you entirely.
It’s probably the scariest to think that
All of the crap we’ve been through,
Good
Or bad
Or somewhere in between,
Will soon amount to nothing,
Even though to me, it meant everything.

I don't hate you.
I hate myself
For letting it happen.
For saying yes
When I meant no.
For letting you touch me
And obeying your every command
To touch you.
For doing it not once
But twice,
Even though I knew I'd feel horrible.
Even though I still feel horrible.
I don't hate you.
I hate myself.
I hate myself.

You’re drowning, but I can’t save you,
And, honestly, I don’t want to.
You’ve become so accustomed to burying your nose in books
That you didn’t even take the time to look,
To see that I’ve been drowning right beside you.
You’re miserable on a good day
Because you never had the courage to say
What was really on your mind.
I’ve tried so hard to be kind,
But there’s not much more that I can do.

I don't have trust issues,
And I still advise you all:
Don’t get too attached to people,
For we are like water.
We can be calm,
Stagnant,
But we can also be wild, chaotic,
Dangerous,
Like a wave during a storm.
We are beautiful
But tragic and unpredictable,
And when you are least expecting it,
We might just disappear.

People don't drop out of school and work
Full time in food service because they're happy.
At least the tips are good.
I made over $70 this week.
My parent's tips are pretty solid as well,
But lord knows I don't listen to those.

It's funny, you know?
It's really **** funny.
Even when I thought there was no light
At the end of the tunnel,
I could see a faint glimmer of hope,
Of relief, of it will be okay... someday.

But now, oh,
Now I'm too afraid too open my eyes.
Even if that faint glimmer of hope is there,
I can't see it.
Honestly, people don't drop out of school and work
Full time in food service because they're happy.

Six months of
wishing,
wanting,
crying,
and trying
to be better,
to maintain a love that was tragically one-sided
and doomed from the start.

*******.

Six months of scars,
of long sleeved shirts
and pathetic excuses,
of lying to my parents
and telling myself,
"Things will get better."

*******.

Six months of long distance,
of broken promises,
missed phone calls,
and waiting for you to come home.

*******.

Six months of leading me on,
of empty words
and false I love you's,
said too soon and too often
but never truly meant.

*****. You.

There is beauty in breaking down
and putting yourself back together,
but picking up the pieces is hard
when you've misplaced so many of them.
The thing about heartbreak is that
it's not a one time thing.
No, it can happen over and over again,
each time being more painful than the last.
It's hard to find the silver lining
when disappointment is your oldest friend.
No, I can't find the silver lining
because there are too many lines on my wrists,
and I have fallen apart and put myself back together
s o  m a n y  t i m e s
that it's not even beautiful or poetic or courageous.
It's just sad.
I find too much comfort in voices that aren't my own
and in arms that aren't mine.
I'd sleep in a stranger's bed if it meant
I didn't have to sleep alone,
and even with my head on your chest,
listening to your sleepy heartbeat, I still feel lonely.
Yes, I know how to pick up the pieces,
but my heart is made of glass
and my hands are covered in scrapes.
Nothing worth having ever comes easy,
but I'm so **** tired, and my hands are sore,
and I've picked up the pieces
s o  m a n y  t i m e s
that I don't think I can do it again.

I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.

My life is a joke,
so I might as well laugh,
right?
Well, I’m not laughing.
This isn’t funny anymore,
and I don't know
if it ever really was.

You asked me once how to define happiness.
I didn’t have an answer;
I still don’t.
All I know is you’re the closest thing
I’ve ever had to it.

Yesterday was our anniversary.
One year, to be exact.
I doubt you remembered.
I barely remembered.
But when I did,
It hit me.
All the pain from the last few months
Came at me
Full force,
And I didn’t think I would survive it.
I guess I’m still trying to figure out
How to survive it.

No, no, no, no, no.
Get me out of here.
Stop asking me where I'm going
And when I'll be back
And what I'm doing
And how I'm feeling.
I miss my campus,
My freedom.
This is not home.

I think I led you on last night.
I didn't mean to, I swear,
but I was lonely
and drunk,
and the boy who got me drunk
took off in a hurry like always.
It started with a
"Hey, what are you up to?"
and turned into
me giving you an excerpt
from the sad, stupid story that is my life.
You listened carefully
and intently
as I poured another ******* piece of my heart out
to another ******* stranger.
When you walked me back to my dorm,
I said goodnight
and thanked you for keeping me company
and then quickly shut the door
because I knew that
you were hoping for more.
I'm sorry.
I didn't mean to lead you on.
But in my defense,
you should know better
than to fall for a girl
who gets drunk on a Tuesday night.

It would be so much easier to blame
the boy who broke my heart,
the friends who left when they promised to stay,
the teacher who told me I talked too much,
the red-haired girl who bullied me in preschool,
my mother,
my father,
society,
anyone except myself.
But I'm an adult now, and I have to take responsibility
for ******* up my own life.

You can put all of yourself into someone or
Something,
But that doesn’t mean it will ever amount to
Anything.
In the end, you’ll just be miserable and
Alone.

The day you left, I broke into a million tiny pieces.
I had to put myself back together with a bottle of Elmer’s glue
And a roll of scotch tape.
Some of the pieces were put back in the wrong place,
While others were lost among the wreckage,
Either never to be seen again
Or still waiting to be found.
The tape sometimes loses its stick,
And the glue doesn’t always hold,
So repairs are necessary.
Crafts have never been my forte, but I’m getting there.
You see, with each repair, the pieces fit better,
And I stand a little taller
And a little less broken.

Don’t play the victim.
You took my virginity
on that chilly summer night
in our neighbor’s yard.
You were there,
completely sober,
coherent,
and I was there, too,
drunk on stolen wine
and barely able to walk
without assistance.
You told me
to lie down.
I obeyed.
You told me
to take off my clothes.
I obeyed.
Although my memory is hazy,
I know that
it happened.
Don’t tell your friends
that I made the whole thing up,
that I’m some attention-seeking *****
who’s obsessed with you.
Believe me,
if I wanted attention that badly,
I’d get it another way.
You’re a sick, twisted *******,
and, to be honest,
I pity you.
If you can only get it
from drunk girls,
you must not be that good.

My therapist’s name is Beth.
She told me that I have
anxiety,
depression,
a lack of motivation,
and zero self-esteem.
She told me that I need to find
a hobby,
a pastime,
something that makes me “happy.”
She told me to focus on
my good qualities,
my strengths.
Please, Beth,
just give me some meds.

Lately,
You are the only reason I have
To even try
To stay alive.

Because lately,
I haven't been doing so well.

My mind
Is playing games with me,
And I don't know the rules,
Nevermind how to win.

You may not know
How these games work,
But you certainly make playing
A little bit easier.

Maybe you could have been more understanding.
Maybe I should have tried harder to be okay.
Maybe we just weren't meant to be
And got lost somewhere along the way.
But maybe if I wasn't so broken,
You would have stuck around,
And that thing we lost, whatever it was,
Could have possibly, just maybe, been found.

“I can’t read your mind,” you say,
as if it's a bad thing.
If you could read my mind,
you would no longer look at me
with those adoring eyes of yours.
You wouldn’t make me breakfast
or hold my hand
or call me beautiful.
You probably wouldn’t call me
at all.
And I wouldn’t blame you.
If you could read my mind,
you’d see the darkness,
the hatred.
My kindness,
my innocence,
my “adorable” exterior
are works of fiction.
My heart is bitter and cold.
I am not “kind,”
by any means.
I may love you,
but you’re one of few.
Just be thankful
that you can’t read my mind.

So you need my help, huh?
Well, I'm sorry, my dear,
But I fear
I won't be of any assistance.
Do you remember when I cried in the middle of class
And you told me that he was "just a boyfriend"?
Remember when you made fun of my silence,
Even though you knew how broken I was?
Remember when I fell apart
And you impatiently waited
For me to put the pieces back together?
You may have forgotten,
But the memory's fresh in my mind.
You see, I've tried to let go,
But it appears that I'm stuck.
I'm sorry, my dear,
You're out of luck.

If you want to impress me,
You have to surprise me.
You have to do
That last thing that I would ever expect you to do
And then keep doing that
Everyday.
You have to go against the norm.
You have to catch me off guard
And make me question everything I ever thought
To be true.
Yes, I might hate you for it,
But rest assured that I will be enthralled.
Hate and love are interchangeable,
Right?

Most people
are scared of spiders
or heights
or being alone.
My biggest fear
is gaining weight.
Everytime my jeans feel a little tighter
or my thumb and my pointer finger
can't quite fit around my wrist,
I. Panic.
So then I skip a meal
or two
or three,
and the next thing I know,
I've gone days
with barely a thing to eat
and the very thought of food makes me feel ill.
People will tell me to eat,
beg me,
make me feel guilty for willfully starving
when the chlildren in Africa would ****
for my mediocre college meal plan.
So then I cave.
I eat
and eat
and eat
until they are satisfied,
until they say I've
"had enough,"
until I feel so sick
that all I can do
is make up an excuse about homework
and dash to the bathroom.
It turns out that my pointer finger
is good for something else, too.

I want to be in love.
I want my palms to sweat
And my heart to race
And my thoughts to be so tangled in love-struck confusion
That I can’t sleep
Or eat
Or think about anything else.
I want to throw away my inhibitions
And let raw emotion take over.
I want to **** with passion.
I want to scream.
I want to cry.
I want to laugh until my stomach hurts
And I can barely breathe.
I want moments that take my breath away.
I want to make memories.
I want to stay up until dawn just to watch the sunrise.
I want everything, but most of all,
I just want to feel.

Stop.
Stop interfering.
Stop trying to solve a non-existent problem.
Stop making my life out to be worse
So that yours can seem better.
Yes, I am a **** up,
But so are you.
We are both damaged.
We are both in need of repair.
But until you start to fix yourself,
Stop trying to fix me.

Yeah, you said it,
And maybe you meant it.
I’m sorry I can’t forget it,
But do you even regret it?
I sincerely doubt it,
Although I’m not mad about it.
I’m trying to move past it.
I just want to move past it.

Some people are cuter in person.
I'm not.
I know how to hold the camera
so that my skin
looks flawless
and poreless,
and my body
looks thin
and lean,
but not too lean
(we don't want people asking questions).
I know the right angles use,
the right filters to disguise
the devastatingly average face
that God gave me.
I'm no model,
but I could certianly be a
photographer.

He told me that he didn’t like his smile.
“It’s too big,” he said.
But little does he know that a smile like his
could light up an arena.

He told me that he didn’t like his voice.
“It sounds weird on tape,” he said.
But little does he know that a voice like his
could engage the toughest of crowds.

He told me that he didn’t like his laugh.
“It’s loud and obnoxious,” he said.
But little does he know that a laugh like his
could spread as if it were an infection.

He told me that he liked me.
“I want to be with you,” he said.
But little does he know that someone like him
could do so much better than someone like me.