I fear the way you look at me,
such love and adoration,
I fear the sweet things you say
and all those classic movie actions of love.
I fear how deeply you care.

So often am I filled with anger
at your sweet words;
I am not an Angel-
how dare you call me your princess!
I'm nothing but a piece of trash
waiting for this bond to crash.
I'm a ***** fat creep
a disturbed dying freak-
I beg of you, stop loving me,
you do not know you are not free.

I'm a liar,
a sad dying liar,
you embarrass me
you're a *****
you're quite ugly
and lame
you have no sense of adventure
and not an inch of loyalty.

My dear I'm a liar,
a cruel, sick patient.
I'm a ***** fat creep
a disturbed dying freak-
I beg of you, stop loving me
For I've never loved you.

I'm happy,
As the knife drags across my wrist.
I'm loved,
As the skin is torn away.
I'm okay,
as the blood comes pouring out.
I'm worth something,
as my tears water down the blood.
I'm happy,
as it pools around me.
I'm happy,
as the overwhelming pain is bliss.
I. am. Happy.
as I lose the long awaited consciousness.

Sometimes it feels good to talk about you. To say your name out loud. Just to prove that my tongue can still form the syllables. Just to show that it's okay. That you're not a secret. Not a curse forbidden to pass across my lips and into the open air. It feels good to talk about the memories that we shared. The late nights, the good times, the places we went. The small fights with silent treatment, kiss me let's make up, remedies. The inside jokes that still tickle my brain and make me hear your laugh. The laugh that accompanied the voice that belonged to the person I felt so safe with. So comfortable around. So in love with. Yes I said it. In love. Because when it's love, you really are IN it. It surrounds you. Takes up your whole heart. It takes your breath away. Makes you appreciate the little things. It makes you realize how important a crumpled up piece of paper with words written on it just for you really is. How special one kiss can really be. And how perfect one hand in your own can feel. So sometimes it feels good to remember the whispers you'd tell me in the dark when it was just us, the moon and the stars. And sometimes it feels good to think about the fact that you truly cared for me and not just me, but us. What I wouldn't give for just one more memory. For just another chance to hear your heart beat inside your chest. For you to offer me your hand as I sit in the passengers seat, going anywhere with you. Just anywhere your heart desires. But that's the thing. Your heart. It's desire isn't me. No matter how badly I want it to be. No matter how many times I say I'm sorry. Scream it up to heaven. Or to the stars. Or to anyone around to listen. No matter how many tears I shed. Weep. Sob. Cry. It's useless. Hopeless. The memories they're good. They're great. They're what I treasure most now that you're gone. And that's why I say sometimes. Because sometimes it feels good to know that we once had the world in our hands. That at one point we almost caught our dreams. That at a place in time WE actually had the same dream. That there even was a "we". But the other times. The times where it doesn't feel good. Where just the thought of you, of us, tears me apart. That's what makes every single day a challenge. Because sometimes I just want to forget the best part of my life. The best memories and jokes and feelings. Leave them all behind. There are times where I want nothing more than for all of that to be gone. And that's what's so sad. That sometimes I want the best part of my life, the best part of me, to disappear...

Everyone talks about depression as if they know it.  

But what they don’t know is that depression is a hooded figure standing just outside of a wooden doorway,

it’s feeling the blood dripping down your skin and having the sick thought of  “Oh, look how beautiful the red is” (they always say red is my color).

Depression is lying on your bed for hours on end, salt tracks lining your face like the scars on your ankles, staring at your ceiling tracing patterns in the paint and accepting death in life with this hole in your chest because death is a reward, an escape from this pain you deserve to feel.

Depression is writing sick poetry on skin and publishing it with scars, cutting on ankles, not wrists because you’re scared you’ll get in trouble but you so desperately need to be seen, and never are.

Depression is writing the word “alone” and seeing the word “home”, accepting the pain like a gift because you deserve it.

Depression is admitting suicidal thoughts to paper and not to people, and loving the broken things, hoping to tie them together, thinking maybe things will get better, but knowing that’s just wishful thinking.

Depression is hearing your mother call you monster and disgusting through the too-thin walls of your door when she thinks you can’t hear, and then telling you to your face that you have no right to cry, as if sadness is a privilege and you’re so pathetic that you don’t deserve it.

Depression is shutting yourself up in your room and hearing your family laughing downstairs because you feel like you can’t be a part of them and learning at a young age to love family always but that family isn’t always love

Depression is wanting to take love and your heart and break them into tiny little pieces and throw them into waves, to throw them away

Depression is a foot when the shoe hasn’t been broken in yet, is you when you haven’t broken life in, is seeing happy people and thinking they all look the same, like the front covers of magazines with smiles reaching their eyes when yours can’t.

Depression is wishing you could package your smiles into tiny little piles and hand them to people more deserving of them because you know you’re wasting them with half-assed lines of “I’m fine”

Depression is having to view your past as if it wasn’t yours, because to accept it as reality is to accept finality of your life through suicide.

Depression is a hooded figure standing just outside of a wooden doorway and when you close the door out of fear it keeps pounding, possessive, ******, and when you open the door out of anger you shout, “I’M SCARED” to thin air but your voice comes out as a whisper.

Would you be upset

                      if I found more comfort in my razors
          
                                                                                    than in your arms

You want to show me
some real love,
then please,
lover of the poetic-art,
**** on my words,
keep a tight grip
on my concepts,
don't fight me,
move with my flow,
*******
with more theory,
swallow all of my stories,
don't miss a drop
& return for more.

I want you reader,
I want you really bad,
I want you to know,
it means a lot to me
you see,
your reading-actions
make me fiery-hot,
I write harder,
harder & harder.

Depression stared at me from a doorway.
He growled at me, as a demon,
I slammed the door, terrified --
But the growling continued.
Pounding. Possessive. ******,
Anger ******* stifling fear,
I opened the door and screamed
"I AM SCARED"
But my voice came out
As a growl.
As a whisper.

have you ever had those days
when you miss that feeling
of the blade touching your skin
and barely missing a vein?
the excitement you feel
when blood pours out
and the manic grin that
spreads across your face
as the pain subsides?'

i'll be honest,
it is what i have thought about
all day long.
i want the blood
and the pain and the
momental joy.

but, that is all it is.
the feeling flees the second
i am done, the high is gone
and all i am left with is
a ripped up wrist.

hopefully, love isn't the same way.
but, all great addictions usually are.