I know you pretend like I don't have pages and pages of poems about other guys.
I know you pretend like I didn't tell you about the time I cheated on my boyfriend last year.
I know you pretend like you didn't hear me throw up in the bathroom down the hall.
I know you pretend like you didn't see the scars on my wrist.
I know you pretend that all the things that aren't perfect about me don't exist and maybe that's why "you and I" will never be "us"

"Tell me about your family."

Before I tell you about my family I must warn you.
My family story isn't a happy one
It's not a story full of Christmas cards and family game nights.
It's not picturesque. It's not a story of smiles and laughter.

It's a story full of guilt and self hatred.
It's a story composed of slamming doors and cigarette burns.
It's me on the floor crying questioning my self worth.
It's my mom holding a bottle of anti-depressants that she always claimed were asprin.
It's my brother seconds before attempting to take his own life.
It's my sisters leaving to live with my grandparents.
It's my dad living behind bars. He couldn't keep his hands to himself.

Before you ask about my family...

You should know my family's story is one that only knew absence and hatred. It never loved. It never cast out my demons, in fact it's the reason they're there. It never said "good job." It never comforted. It never made anything better.

the sweetest poems I ever wrote were when I claimed to hate you.

I see you all the time.
I see you in crowded cafeterias and I remember you getting up to get sweet tea
I see you in open fields and I remember memories made at that little camp
I see you on empty concrete curbs like where we sat when we talked that Wednesday night.
I see you when I look at empty beds and I remember how you used to lay on your stomach and glance and smile at me.
I see you in full pews and empty alters and I remember how you were too nervous to walk to the alter.
I see you post pictures alone (without me) and I wonder if they look as empty to you as they make me feel
It's been 159 hours since I last saw you and all I can say is I miss you more than anything.

I'm so in love with you that my mind is too boggled with adjectives to use to describe you I can't even try to write poetry.

You leave me speechless.

Why do I feel like a stranger in my own home?
Isn't "home" supposed to be the place where you feel free?
Instead all I get are condescending glaces and remarks that make me want to curl up into a ball.
I've been avoiding all mirrors.
How could I see myself as beautiful when the only people who were supposed to love me wouldn't care if my body went up into flames.?
This is my home...but I feel so alone.

What is so wrong about romanticizing pain?

No, pain is not beautiful.
But can one not see the beauty in loving someone so much that it hurts your heart physically and emotionally?

Isn't love that makes your whole body numb beautiful?