before I met you I planted seeds
of self love in my heart
slowly growing,
slowly learning to love myself.

you made the seeds in my heart sprout
into beautiful flowers
that I had no idea I was capable of growing

so when you left
you picked through them
and took what you pleased.
you picked through my garden
and left me with seeds.

Thank you for always being here,
when I needed you the most.
When I asked you to come over,
you were there in a matter of minutes and most days,
you even brought your best friend Anxiety,
so we wouldn't be alone.
Some days,
you asked if you could stay over,
because you were all alone and really needed a hug.
My reply was a of course,
I know how it feels like to be alone in this world.

But now,
now you will not leave,
no one else wants you and I'm stuck here with you in my bedroom.
I don't remember how it felt like,
before you came around and it is like having a best friend you just can't be apart from.
It is weird because sometimes I hate you,
other times I can't live without you.
You can make me feel so important,
yet so dead and I wish I did not have to say this,
but dear Depression,
I think it is time for you to leave.

(e.k.j.)

A couple of weeks ago my aunt asked me,
what the first thing I noticed about a girl is.

''Her hands''.

The conversation quickly turned *****,
''you just want to know what they are able to do to you''.

At first,
I thought it was funny,
almost agreeing with the statement that had been made but then,
I realised that we all want what we can't have.
Looking down on my own hands for ages thinking that I wish they could just function.
I have been looking for the hands I have never had,
in the girls I have been debating whether or not they were,
girlfriend material,
judging my looks,
my hands,
my shape and my face while other girls wants what I have.

After realising just that,
I decided that from now on,
I will stop looking at hands and look into their eyes instead.

(e.k.j.)

And I am tortured by regret,
things I've not done yet.
Thinking this defines me.

And I cannot deny
that I'm terrified
of fading to black.

I used to cherish every doubt--
now unsure in what I've found:
my instability was transparent
and now it's apparent...

And I now keep the lights on,
lay in a cold bath until warm.
My lips, so purple and svelte,
have sealed all I have felt.

And I stay a static transplant,
a homely nomadic infant,
stumbling towards the abyss,
thinking it's what I've missed.

I used to utilize the past,
stretching time, but at last,
the only fire I've consumed
will soon fade to black...