There are few things so cruel as the curse of night time
for on this day, I worked in the hot sun
and cordially spoke with friends on this evening,
we laughed and played and said horrible things that, were we in mixed company,
would have been pushed into the recesses of our minds
to be texted out later.
But the night!
It is not a stalking wolf
not like fear-
that is merely the space between my eyes and the rest of the world when the lids are shut.
On no
it is an old friend,
the sorrows borne of
of
of what?
Fists at my brow?
Lips on my flesh?
Or the curse of my own biology?
No matter! I digress.
The old friend, waiting to turn a nice day into a heart ache.
He's drinking again, and that shouldn't matter to me.
It isn't in excess,
I'm just puritanical, I know,
and for once I'm not having a **** panic attack over it,
but I hurt.
I ache.
This is dumb, it is foolish
it is childish.
Childish! Childish!
Cowardly
What worth is my pain?
Tuesday, it will be a year since I hurt myself,
and I'm not going to again because I have someone I love who cares about me
and doesn't just treat my hurt like it's a ploy for attention
(if it were a ploy, I wouldn't be posting this on a poetry website,
it would be facebook
with tags for the people who put me here).
But seriously though,
what does it matter if I am in pain?
Depression, for me, has always been a matter of
1) ignore the urges
2) cover the symptoms.
Even when I was hurting myself,
I would make the marks look like I had fallen off of my bike or some **** like that,
so my parents would scold.
They never worried
it was just annoying to them.
Annoying?
To you?
**** it, I'm the one having this happen!
But then, you are carting me from doctor to doctor to shrink and back again,
you're the ones that the school calls when I get into fights and I try and **** myself in the locker room.
So I guess I am a burden.
But I'd be more of a burden if I was dead,
because then you'd have to explain to everyone
and my love would be ruined
and my parents would have to pay to bury their girl
and
and
and
**** it, what am I supposed to do?
I knew this would happen,
I don't understand
I'm not particularly smart, or wise, or anything.
I'm just kind hearted.
That's what I do.
So what do I do?
Ah.
Whatever.
I guess I just go to sleep.

Day One on my meds
nothing has changed yet, but
I'm optimistic

**** it, what do I need to do to get someone to notice me?
Pay attention to me!
Do I have to cut myself some more?
Or should I burn down a house?
******, I'll punch you in the mouth if you'd
just
*******
punch
me
back.
Please!
Am I a ghost? Doomed to wander in this same rut, caught in anxiety and a desperate need to please?
**** that, I'm through trying to please people,
I tried that,
and no one will look at me anyway!
So what do I have to do?
Steal a car?
Break your heart?
**** someone?
**** myself?

**** it, say something!
******* react!
Blank walls.
An Ode to you
To the friends I have, I show you my open arms every last time.
So why is it that when I'm at my worst you send me a thank you letter written in scribbled cursive scribed on your *******?
I love you! I love you!
It isn't my fault I'm scared!
But is this not of my own making, where I won't tell you that I'm not okay?
If I let myself be used…

But I send off all the signals.
I write on the walls in blue and red and neon green, same as that TV you stare at.
Why don't you stare at my sitcom?
It's about a girl ******* herself over so often that the foot up her *** is coming out her mouth.
**** it, ******* know me!
Know me!