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.

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.

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.

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.