the demons in my head
take my mind to hell with them.
they burn my dreams,
freeze my heart,
and torture my soul.
my thoughts wander with ghosts;
their lost expressions comfort me now.
they are empty,
but so am i.
i am empty but not alone.

yes,
"i've got everything."
i know i do,
but the darkness doesn't discriminate
like you want it to.
it chases me despite my privilege,
despite my "perfect education,"
my "perfect family,"
my "perfect life,"
despite your protesting.
you cannot stop the darkness,
no matter how hard you try.
you cannot stop the darkness,
and neither can I.

i will never be enough for you.
not white enough,
not latina enough for you.
not straight enough,
not gay enough for you.

but i will be biracial enough,
bisexual enough for me.

i hate the way my name
fits in other people's mouths,
like it's sour;
they stutter and pronounce it wrong.
i like it when it sounds sweet,
sugary and pretty,
like peaches and cream,
like the way you would say 'darling'
to a love.
is that so hard?

I'm not sure whether you are clueless
or just deceitful
in your "hope."
You will leave us your ruined planet
and tell us you have
"hope" in us;
that you believe
we can fix your mistakes
somehow.
Like a child pasting paper cutouts
on an important project
and then scribbling on it;
that is how useful your
"hope" is.
You treat us as children
while acting like them yourselves.
Your immature "hope"
curses us.
Your tantrums
doom us to a ruined planet,
wrapped up in a pretty little bow,
signed "with hope."
Useless.
We do not want your "hope"
or your belittling stares
or your childish attitudes
or your arguments
or your optimism.
We want your action
your help,
your votes.
Lend us your strength,
not your stupid faith in us,
because by the time
we are 18
it will be too late.
We do not want your ruined planet,
we want you to act
like the adults you call yourselves.
We do not want your "hope."
We want your help.

we do so much to pretend
we are okay,
even just for a passing moment.
we cry until we can't anymore,
wash our faces, and continue
with fake smiles badly pasted
to our faces.
we press our souls to one another's,
letting them break us,
and pretend we're surprised.
the scars remain,
so we cover them up with makeup
and pretend they don't throb
when others touch them.
we plant flowers on graves,
and send "thoughts and prayers"
in the wake of complete devastation
as though that'll make everything
better.
it won't, but perhaps
it will make the ruins beautiful;

appearances are all that matter anyways.