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When I say my eyes are sensitive, I don’t mean that I can’t stare into the sun too long or that I squint when I look at my phone in the middle of the night. I mean when I look at you, I see the crooked lines in your beautiful face. I see the curve in your nose, the creases you achieved from laughing too hard. I see how your hair drops a fraction and how you glide the pieces behind your ear. I see how your teeth lightly press into your bottom lip when your face is frozen. I see how certain sounds make your head tilt and how it takes you exactly 4 long chews to finish what’s in your mouth. I see your crooked fingers and how they hold on tightly to your phone and keys when you walk to the car and how your eyelashes are always longer on Tuesdays.
When I say my ears are sensitive I don’t mean that I can’t be around fireworks or that when my dads t.v is too loud I get a headache. I mean the sigh you make after each sentence scares the living hell out of me, and how you always clear your throat twice when you’re about to talk about something important. And how I hear your accent when you say nothing and your laugh when the night is quiet. I hear your teeth clench together as you speak words of anger and your tongue push against the inside of your cheek when you’re being playful. I hear you tell me you’re walking away and that you’ll be coming right back and even when I think you’re silenced you come off mute.
When I say I lost you, I don’t mean I lost you once and that I have dealt with it. I lose you every time I hear a song, or watch a movie. I lose you when I close my eyes and wake up without you. I lose you when I see a couple and when I drop my shopping bags onto the tiles after a long day. I lose you and I lose you and I lose you and even though you’re lost I keep hoping you’ll turn up.
But people aren’t keys or your favorite sweater. They don’t just turn up after days and weeks of looking. They find a path and follow it through and I keep hoping if I follow the path we’ll meet each other and it’ll be like it was. But I know you have sensitive eyes and wear glasses and that your hearing is fine.
Anorexia was the most attentive
Girlfriend anyone could ask for
And I fell hard for her
I fell for for 500 calories a day,
The sense of control it gave me
Compliments from girls I'd never talked to before
Doctors so pleased that I was finally "healthy"
That feeling,
Of stepping on the scale
And realizing that I took up less space
Than when I'd stepped on the day before
The feeling of water hitting an empty stomach
The hunger pangs
That secretly thrilled me
The thrill of the lies
The ones that became ever so easy
To slip off my tongue
The thrill of a secret love affair with death
I fell for an abuser
I fell...
Bruises lined my body
From bumping into walls
Because my body was so
Malnourished I couldn't
Walk down a hallway
Fell down a rabbit hole-
Fell down into a world I couldn't escape-
Thigh gaps, thinspiration, tips and tricks to
Hide this wonderland in your head
Walking headfirst into Anorexia was like walking
Into a haunted house
It's fun and exhilarating at first
It's a game, it's harmless
And then you realize that the doors
Are barred and it dawns on you
That ringing the doorbell of death
Was not the best idea
I am a study in skinny does not make you happy
The 5 pounds you wanted to lose
Turns to 10
Turns to 20
Turns to...
I am a study in
Every inch of your body being a warzone
Of standing in front of a mirror
Seeing nothing but a piece of meat
Taking up too much space
I am a study in calculation
I am a study in lying
I am a study in not dead, but not alive
I am a study in starvation
I am a study in falling out of love
you had two tattoos,
long brown hair
and brown eyes that had green flecks in the sunlight

you had big dreams
and a scraggly beard
and a love for me that I didn't understand

you had an acoustic guitar
and calloused fingers
and strong shoulders

you had a love for poetry
and a hate for your dad
and a strong nicotine addiction

you had my heart in your hand
and my secrets in your mind
and my fingers intertwined in yours

you had a lot of hopes
but they were never enough
because you took them
and shot them down
with silver bullets
using the same gun
your mother used
to escape
One day I will look in the mirror and find a stranger

There are studs of silver all over my room from when I was younger
and all I wanted to do was shove unknown metals through my skin
and call it rebellion.

There are black nailpolish bottles, and scissors for cutting my own hair
and face paint for when I wanted nothing else but to look like Bowie
I am not a normal teenage girl, and I think I guess I'm an adult now.

I kissed boys on the mouth when I was wishing they'd kiss my soul
I tried to drown myself in the bathtub until I figured out that I couldn't breathe-
and that I wanted to.

There is nothing poetic about the way that I want so badly on Saturday nights
to cut into my own skin with whatever sharp object I can find
There is nothing poetic about how I haven't left the house in three months except
to go buy hair dye so I don't have to recognize myself anymore.

I don't find poetry in the stars anymore because they remind me too much of you.

I looked in the mirror today and found a stranger
and nothing about this is poetic.
your lips are a sort of heaven
take that from an athiest

I used to believe in God
until he took away the one I loved most
and even though I don't believe
I hope I'm wrong
because surely someone as beautiful as you
deserves a heaven

your words are a sort of paradox
seemingly neverending, thank God
I don't know what I'd do without them

but also like a maze that I can't find my way out of
you've got my mind spinning and I wouldn't want
to find my way even if I could

and don't get me started on your eyes
because I can't help but look into them and see an hourglass
ticking down the time until you leave again and i'll be
praying to whoever will listen that I get to see them one last time
they're blue like the sky,

sky blue sky blue
I've never written words more true
If I should find a time machine I will travel back in time to when you were six years old.
I will look into your scared, not yet masked in makeup doe eyes and I will tell you that everything will be okay.
I will let you know that even though you don’t feel six years old, you are.
And next year you will be seven, and then eight.
And no, maybe when you’re 16 you will not feel 16, but you will feel 22.
And when you’re 17, you’ll age four years because of broken hearts and the evil of the world.
And I will tell you that even though in a few years time, when you are nine, and you think you know everything that this world has to offer, you won’t.
And that will be okay.
Sometimes it is okay not to know everything.  Even though you want the answers, I swear to god sometimes it is okay to not know.
And even though your world is falling apart right now, and home feels like a battlefield, and you are the grenade set to explode, you aren’t.
And even though your parents are on opposing fields and armies
And even though you are no man’s land, stuck in the middle of a firing squad
And even though you have lost the ability to cry because at six years old you feel numb
And even though you lost the one pair of arms you felt safe in
And even though you want to save your brother from the childhood you are currently living in,
you have to stop worrying.
You are six years old, and soon you’ll be seven.
And you won’t feel seven.
You’ll feel seventeen.
And I’ll feel twenty six.
Because I have lived my life for seventeen years and I know that you are scared because I am scared too.
It will get worse before it gets better, I promise you that much.
But you will spend your entire life trying to find the perfect balance between happy and sad, the good and evil and your mom and dad.
And when you are seventeen, you’ll feel twenty six.
And you might understand.
If I should find a time machine I will travel back in time to when I was six years old.
I once was a colorful little girl
and I had big blue eyes, and I still do
the only difference is now I wear black
so much that they’re not blue anymore;
they’re gray
and I guess that’s kind of fitting because
I feel gray all the time
I feel as though my soul is being ****** out of me
from a straw and the juice box is labelled depression
Everybody looks on like I’m a car accident;
Scared, doe-eyed, unsure if they should call for help
I yell at them not to, but in the same breath I whisper “please do”
My biggest fear is myself and I’ve burnt all the ropes
so I can’t fall from grace
Not that I was anything close to being graceful while I was still vibrant
“Old soul” they whispered
“EMPATH” they taunted
But how long can the seven year old girl with the 98 year old soul
and the sensitivity to others feelings care for others without losing sight of herself?
How long can she read others’ emotions before she stops reading her own?
Before she stops feeling her own?
Not long.
I write a lot about things I don't understand.
I keep thinking that maybe if I write about them,
I'll be able to gain a better knowledge.
So far this has proved untrue.

I write a lot about love when all I really know is that it hurts.

I've been told by people (yes plural) that they either
don't know how to love or don't like love itself.
And quickly and shakily, and with an unstable mindset,
I am starting to think that what those people meant was not
"I don't know how to love", but "I don't know how to love you".
Not "I don't like love", but "I don't like the idea of love with you"

I am a blackhole of both unrequited love and endless bottles of
self destruction and I secretly like being perpetually alone.
I am a lover without a lover.
I am a writer, and writers are almost always broken.
If not broken, there are definitely surface cracks.
Take it from me.

My poems are all about love and you, and I don't quite understand.
I like to write my name on a piece of paper over and over again
until it's messy enough that I forget who I am

Erasing the edges, smudging it out until my identity is nothing but a fast blur;
something that could only be noticed if you were looking for it-
something you would probably be disturbed to find anyways

Like when you're driving and you see an animal on the side of the road
and you have to pull over because it's your third week of being a vegetarian
and you almost have to force yourself to cry about it, but not quite

Or when you're cleaning your room and you find that old wooden box
you put your earrings in when you were seven years old
and now you're almost triple the age you were at that time
and you find those earrings, but there's only one of each so you put on mismatched ones
and cry yourself to sleep because you're missing parts of you that you thought would
always be there

"Mama said there'll be days like this,
there'll be days like this, my mama said"

On the messy days I like to forget who I am and pretend I'm still who I used to be.
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