If I could find a way to capture
the exact essence of you,
believe me I would.
And if I could find a way to modify the base pair sequences
which code my DNA
so that I would be
the person you wanted,
believe me I would.
But I cannot portray you,
because I do not know exactly what you are
or who you are,
or why you are.
And I cannot be the person
you wish that I would be,
because you will not let me inside the bullet proof shell
of your head.
So I will let it be enough, watching you
strut around streets pretending that these things
are really all you want,
when you are, in reality, almost dreaming of beaches and cliffs
and people
who I have never met
and who I will never be,
and I suppose
I will just have to pretend to be okay with that.

The truth of it is-

he's not going to fix you

she's not going to make you forget
the way your father would hit you

He is not going to make your collarbones sprout roses
He will not make you forget how to need

The truth of it is-

She is not a savior
She is not able to fight off the demons in your dreams

He will not make you forget the way your mother left
The bloodstains in the bathtub will still be there

The truth of it is-
This is your life
This is not a movie

No one is going to swoop in and save you

You will have to grow your own wings if you want to fly away

I am in
so many different
kinds of pain
this morning. Don't
worry, though, I
have no intention of
disrupting the peaceful
start to your lovely
day. Here, watch
me grit my
teeth into a smile.

I hold the razor in my right hand
shaking, like I always do
I drench the metal in my flesh
feel the pain I am so used to

The shaking stops
my mind is clear
I drop the blade
escape with fear

What have I done?

I try to hide but I am bare
the evidense are there:
My right hand smell of steel
my left hand taste of it

I step to the rhythm of the beat;
   But slowly.
I walk along in the paths of life;
   But the other way.
I see happiness and joy around me
   But not my own.
I try to restore balance and peace
   But I'm so conflicted.
I understand other people's problems
   But I can't forgive myself.
I
   But
I
   But I...................


****.

For every girl who was a "*****"
    because she said no to a boy;
For every girl who was a "****"
    because she said yes.

For every girl who was "asking for it"
    because she wore a short skirt;
For every girl who was a "*****"
    because she wore a long one.

For every girl who was a "challenge"
    because she liked other girls;
For every girl who was "easy"
    because she liked both.

For every girl who was "fat"
    because she had dessert;
For every girl who was "anorexic"
    because she didn't.

For every girl who was "insecure"
    because she wore make-up;
For every girl who was "ugly"
    because she didn't.

For every girl who smiled
    because she thought she was pretty;
For every girl who cried
    because she was told she wasn't:  

Here’s to you.

When you see her cry
     you get a rag,
a gentle delicate cloth.
                                        Lovingly grasp her hand
                                               and dab its tip;
                                       dry each tear as they come.
                                                           ­                               And ask each drop
                                                            ­                                   why it'd leave
                                                           ­                               such beautiful eyes.

  If she wishes
to be in the sky,
  tell her to go.
                              Take the sun ransom,
                              and replace its shining
                                    with her own.
                                                            ­          So you can see her every morning
                                                         ­                          and wish for her
                                                                ­                  return each night.

When you see her scars
  both visible and non-
    touch each gently.
                                             And remind her
                                       that each and every hurt
                                            she has survived,
                                                       ­                                 has only made her
                                                                ­                   that much more unique;
                                                         ­                              that much stronger.

  Show her that she
  is a special person
and is worthy of love.
                                     That she deserves the love
                                            she fears to give...
                                            show her so that
                                                            ­                     one day after you're gone
                                                            ­                      she can find the strength
                                                                ­                    to go on without you.

    Tell her that while
she might not be a goddess
far above worldly desires,
                                          that she is amazing,
                                         for just being herself
                                    for being that beautiful girl
                                                            ­                   who thinks herself damaged
                                                         ­                         when in truth she's just
                                                            ­                    a different kind of beautiful.

   And finally, love her.
  Like a boy loves a girl
Till she finally remembers
                                            that that's what she is:
                                          not a scar, not a goddess,
                                             not a star. But a girl.
                                                           ­                         That deserves to be loved.

When I was a small child
I had no brothers and sisters
And was often alone.
And sometimes,
Although as I grew older and began to loathe silence
This happened less and less frequently
I would have a thought
And it would ring in my head clear as day
And I would stop and wonder to myself
REALLY wonder
If I'd said it out loud.
I would convince myself that of course I had.
But that odd moment of doubt
Would linger in the pit of my stomach
And then I would decide that the only way to dispel the unsettling feeling
Was to say something-anything-aloud and prove,
Once and for all, that I could.
And then, of course,
I'd be sure I'd said it
And able to move on with my life unbothered.
So I would speak
Deliberately.
I would draw breath, and say whatever sentence popped into my head
And then I would wait a moment,
To be sure it really took.
But
See
Since I was all alone
Within that moment,
I became unsure all over again-
Had I REALLY said anything at all?
I'd meant to say something,
I'd tried to say something...
But had I?
There was nobody to ask.
There was no way to check.
It created a distinct sense of... otherness.
Of strangeness
That wouldn't leave
And within moments I would be so mixed up
That my skin would crawl with this paranoia
That maybe
Just maybe
I didn't exist
And I hadn't said anything
Because something that doesn't exist can't have a voice
To say something WITH.
This would continue
Until, hopelessly upset, I would run downstairs to find my mother
And cry to her
For what she thought
Was no apparent reason.
That, friends,
Is a big part of why I
Loathe
Being ignored.
And also probably the underlying reason
That as a grown adult, I never sit in silence.