Wrap your arms around me,
lets mold ourselves like clay.
Two separate pieces,
Both an off shade of grey.

Wrap your heart around me,
Let's paint ourselves like trees.
You are yellow; I am blue,
But together we make green.

Wrap your soul around me,
Lets write ourselves a poem.
I lose myself in words
Yet you always bring me home.

If people were art,

You would be a page from a child's coloring book
hanging on the refrigerator.
Different colors filling the page.
An explosion of
red, orange, yellow,
green, purple and blue.
Everything leaking out of the lines you were meant
to contain yourself in.
A green sun and yellow grass,
none of it makes much sense.
And that is exactly what makes you
worth looking at.

But if people were art,

I would be a watercolor that got too wet,
and now the paper is wrinkled
and the picture distorted.
The paint bleeding into itself,
as the paper starts to tear.

My phone buzzes with a text
His eyes dart over, blood shot red.
The angers coming out, palms start to sweat.
I always begged him not to do ****.
"Who the ******* textin! Let me ****** read!"
This is how it starts, manipulating my heart,
And beating till I bleed.
I say "***** you don't even own me.
You barely even know me!
Your a ****** fiend and a ****** who claims to only smoke ****,
but I know youll never get clean.
Youre an unemployed mommy's boy at the age of 23.
Stop slapping me around and be the **** you claim to be.
If your so ******* then why don't you **** me?"
Suddenly I've got a rope around my neck being dragged across the floor.
His eyes go black as he dishes out more.
Now I'm in the middle of the street,
how the **** did I get here? 
I never moved my own feet.
He tackled me to the pavement and I started to scream.
There's a man on the sidewalk ignoring my pleas.
The cops showed up but I denied all these things.
He's sitting in jail but I'll never press charges.
He's got a couple felonies and they found needles in his apartment.
I know he's dangerous but deep down he's sweet.
He only hit me a little, and never put me towards death.
Everyone hates woman that stick up for their beating so I'll lay it to rest.
Maybe my minds just distorted from trying to save a monster on ****.

6 months ago I ******* lost my mind
alone on my bathroom floor,
covered in blood.
Today I would be 9 months pregnant
and the man I made that baby with
is just as gone as my sanity.
Did everyone ******* forget?
Why do we avoid that topic?
Why can’t anyone look me in the ******* eyes anymore?
Why didn’t I ever hear “I’m sorry for your loss”?
Why THE **** didn’t i get condolences?
Because nobody gives a **** when you lose a wanted pregnancy,
that's why.
No one gives a **** when your alone on the bathroom floor covered in blood and in so much pain you *****.
It went from "congratulations, I'm so excited for you!"
to "Well, at least you lost it before it was, like, human??"
Would people still say that if I had had an abortion?
No, I would be called a monster.
But since I wanted to keep the baby,
I'm just being to emotional over the loss of something that
"was barely even there"
How ****** up is that?

Well that pool of blood was a part of me,
and just as human as my mind makes it to be.

This is not a poem. This is a series of events that has happened in the past months.

Starting with last Summer:
I ****** over 20 people in just 3 months. I was ******* anybody who gave me even a second glance. It was usually random guys on the internet, and one day one of those guys held me down in my own bed and choked me. But that didn't scare me off from doing it again. Every day I had a new person in my bed, and it felt so normal to me considering I have already slept with over 60 guys and I'm only 17. But towards august I started to want a relationship. I found a guy I liked named Brandon and I tried everything to make him like me, but soon as we had ***, he never talked to me again.
At the end of September I was finally getting a little control over myself when I met a guy named Erik. He was 18 and graduated, more accomplished than half the guys I have been with. We talked for a couple weeks and on October 3rd he asked me to be his girlfriend. I laughed so hard and was even a little angry. Why the **** would he want to date me? He knew about my tendency to self harm and he knew I was unstable. He said it was cute when I laughed, and when I finally understood that he was serious, I said yes. That night after he left, I cried for hours. I couldn't help it. All I could think was I did not deserve a nice boy like him. As the days went by, things were great. I wasn't cutting and I had somewhat stable moods. But then bad things started happening again.

In the middle of October, Brandon died in a car crash. The last time I saw him was the day he ****** me. It was raining when he drove me home and I told him to slow down, but he looked at me and said he is the safest driver I could ever meet. But I guess he was wrong because now he is dead and his car is in pieces.

When Brandon died, I felt so ******* guilty. I found out about his death like literally 5 minutes after I finished having *** with Erik. I was starting to get bad in my mind again but I didn't tell anyone.

About a week later, my ******* cat died.

Erik and I had started to argue a lot more by then and on my birthday, October 21, he gave me mono. What a ******* way to celebrate my birthday right. I was throwing up for weeks and unable to eat. This went on until early November when we got some even more ****** up news.
I was pregnant.
They said I would have been 3 or 4 months and based on the dates, the baby probably wasn't Erik's. We fought every single day. He got kicked out of the Navy and suddenly it was all my fault. He said I was selfish for keeping it. I was so excited to have the baby and be a mother, to grow the **** up and move on with my life. The second week of this month I announced that I was pregnant. And yet again, more bad things happened.
The day after I told people, I started bleeding really ******* bad. It hurt more than anything I have ever experienced. I went to the ER and they couldn't give me any direct answers, so I waited 3 days until I went to my OB/GYN. Erik and I sat in the doctors office waiting to be treated, when soon as the doctor walked in he told me I had a miscarriage. I held it together and fought back tears until we started to leave the building. I was crying so ******* hard I couldn't breath. I feel like a part of me has been taken away and I can never get that back. I feel incredibly betrayed by my own body. My heart shattered as Erik had no emotions towards the situation. All he would say is "I'm here for you." or "You can get through this." After the miscarriage, he got put back into the Navy. By the end of the day I started to realize, I am the only one who can feel the pain of this loss, and I am going to be in this constant battle with nobody but myself.
People started to think I lied about the pregnancy because I lost the baby a day after I announced it.

I was a ******* mess for all of last week. I didn't go to school or even get out of bed. I only went to school last Friday, finally starting to feel a bit better, excited to see my best and only friend. But as you probably guessed, that didn't go well as usual.

My best friend got kicked out of school and sent to the alternative one in another town. She was all I had, she was my support system. I was upset about her leaving me and it hurt pretty bad. But I made it through the day and didn't have a complete break down.

The next day, 12/13/14 , was Erik's birthday. We went to Minnesota for shopping and it was actually an overall ok day. When we got back home I checked my Facebook and my entire body froze.

I had known a guy named Ben for about a year, he was the sweetest guy I have ever met. Last winter we were both lonely and desperate to fill some type of void within ourselves. So I guess we thought if we ****** all the time then we might start to feel a little less numb. As the seasons changed and summer approached, we realized that having *** in a cemetery parking lot was far more draining that fulfilling. Ben was the kind of guy who would do anything for anyone. He has been there for me whenever I needed him, no matter the time of day. I just really wish we had stayed friends...

Because the first thing on my Facebook news feed was the announcement of his death. Ben, the guy with a heart of gold, committed suicide. I have cried every night this week. He had told me he was suicidal a few months back, I tried to help but he shut me out and we never saw each other again. I didn't go to the funeral and I regret it more than anything. I should have said good bye. I should have never stopped talking to him.

So far this week I have held it together pretty well. Until today at least. While sitting in class I got a message from my best friend. She told me she wants to die. In august she had tried to **** herself and nearly succeeded. That message just ripped me to shreds.




Everyone is giving up, and there isn't a **** thing I can do to save them.

Today dad told me
"Drug users deserve to die."


Tonight I told dad I love him
And he didn't say it back.

"I think you're beautiful. Doesn't that mean anything to you?"

No.
Not when you use the same word to describe every other dark haired, light skinned woman.
Not when you look at me and say
"Of course I think other girls are prettier than you."


"But I still think you're beautiful."
Stop.

"So my words are just empty to you?"

*Of course.

I can't turn my sadness into beauty.  
I try and try and try but the truth is,
there's a certain kind of darkness
and a certain kind of evil
that can't be romanticized into a poem.
Not all feelings can be explained by vomiting up random words into a
college ruled note book paper.
We use words to make our suicidal thoughts sound normal.
Sound acceptable. Sound beautiful.
But suicide is none of those things.
So stop putting the idea of suicidal solutions into the minds of 13 year old boys and girls.
We constantly tell kids that suicide is not the answer,  yet we make the idea seem so appealing.
We paint a pretty picture of
slit wrists
coke lines
anti depressants
hospital beds
and grave stones.
But they are not works of art.
They are grey and cold and empty.
So stop using shades of red, yellow and pink, stop describing the warmth of pain, the way drugs and sliced skin fills your emptiness.
Tell it how it really is.
Instead of writing how good each cut feels, try writing about how bad it actually hurts. how its an addiction.
Instead of writing about the freedom you feel while high, try writing about the way you feel when you come down.  The way the pain crawls right back up your throat,  the way drugs actually ****** up your entire life.
Instead of writing about your sweet dreams of death,  the beautiful idea of taking your own life,
Try writing about the fact that you are terrified to die.  That you want so badly to live. That you don't want to give up.
Stop making the hurt you feel sound cool and trendy.
Tell the world what it's truly like
because lately people have sewn the words
"Beauty" and "pain" into a cute little pink sweater in white lace.

Everywhere I look, there's an emptiness
where you’re supposed to be.
I told the doctors how I see nothing in everything,
so they prescribed pills to help me see.

My room is always so cold
but your breath was so hot.
I told the doctors I still feel it on my neck
so they gave me more pills to make it stop.

I took the pills for years
but they haven’t helped at all
So I stopped the prescriptions
and started my downward fall.

The doctors will never fully understand
that I will always look for you everywhere I go.
Antidepressants and mood stabilizers are making my mind a
bomb, ready to blow.

My wrists still burn from 7th grade
when the entire school laughed at me
for having *** with my brother.
But they didn't know how ******* sick it really was
and they didn't know I didn't want it.
So I ran out of class and sat on the bathroom floor,
carving my skin with my favorite earrings
that started off silver but slowly turned red.
I told you I don't wear earrings anymore.

My throat still hurts from the time I tried to drink drain cleaner
but it was so bitter i spit it all out and it ran down my chin.
So I slept all day and all night
because I cried so hard I couldn't keep my eyes open.
I wonder if that's what you taste on my lips,
Salty tears and bitter chemicals.
Is that why we never kiss?

My neck is still bruised from when I was 11 years old
and hung a jump rope from the ceiling in my basement
and tied it in a knot around my neck.
But soon as I jumped off the chair I ******* fell to the floor
with nothing but a rope burn beneath my chin.
It wasn't the feeling I wanted and I cried so long and violently,
I thought my head would explode.
Does it make sense that I don’t like heights?
Maybe that's why I'm afraid of bridges.

My lungs are still full of water from 2011
when I tried to drown myself in the bathtub.
But the water wasn't very deep and it was hard to stay under.
I could feel myself getting dizzy as my head popped back to surface.
So I stood up,
shampoo still in my hair,
and I washed everything down the drain besides my self.
When I told you I don't know how to swim,
I actually meant I'm too afraid to learn.

My ******* still hurt from the boy who thought getting me drunk would make me take my clothes off.
And I hate to say it but it ******* worked.
But what he didn't realize is that at 15 years old,
I would have gotten naked for him anyways.
I would have touched him even if
I wasn't influenced to pour
shots down my throat and coke up my nose.
I didn't have a chance to say yes or no.
I just wanted to have fun and try to forget everything I was wanting
to **** myself for.
But I ended up with a heartless human being on top of me calling me a *****
while I lie motionless about to *****.
When I got home,
my chest was black and blue but I didn't cry this time
because by then I was too ******* numb to care about anything.
I told you I don't like to drink.
I told you my body aches.

My hands are still sore from when I got sent to rehab and met a boy who liked it when I touched him.
He only came out of his room when the nurses helped him walk.
His face was so white you could almost see through him and he only spoke when he wanted to feel me.
Every night at dinner I would put my hands down his pants underneath the table,
until he stopped eating dinner with us.
He was addicted to something bad and he just kind of stopped waking up.
I got sent home but I don't think he ever left.
I waited months for that boy to call.
But he never did.
Every one disappeared
*And now I'm doing the same to you.

I'm worth something, I just don't know what. I matter to somebody, I just don't know who. I am alive for a reason, I just don't know why. I can beat this depression, I just don't know how. I will see brighter days, I just don't know when.

We were both in such a dark place,
looking to feel anything.
And while you were looking,
I guess you found me.
We tried to **** happiness into each other,
**** the sadness away.
But no matter how many nights of
hot moans and heaving breathing on my neck,
nothing changed how we felt.
I found my way out of that hell,
but you buried yourself in it long ago,
but today your body joined you.
And I know I can work magics but
oh my gosh Ben,
not even I can **** the life into you now.

These men,
They don't mind sharing us.
They just don't want to know with who.

I was going to write him a poem
but the only word I could think of was
'stay'


And that's all I wrote.

I want to write a
beautiful poem
to tell you
I'm going to
**** myself.

But there are
No words
beautiful enough
to describe to you
the way
I'm about to die.

Tell me that not every guy will
leave black tar in my chest,
Assure me that not every guy
is pollution to my soul.
Promise me that I won't be
coughing up their ashes forever.

So go ahead,
fill me with too many "I love you"s.
Inflate my lungs until they want to burst.
Teach me what it's like
to inhale something that won't hurt.

Show me what it's like to have clean air in my lungs.
*Let me breath you.

I didn't have a sweet sixteen.
I didn't have a sweet anything.
But I didn't complain,
I had no right to.
I was a bad girl,
And besides,
Sixteens not all that sweet anyways.

Guys like you are the reasons my poems are so repetitive.

I dread every
                                          Breathe
I take as if letting
                                             life
in my lungs will          
                                             hurt
more than              
                                       suffocating.

You need to understand that no matter how beautifully the poem is written, no matter how relatable those black and white letters are; every word I've ever put on paper has been a product of mental illness. I don't care how deep it sinks into your chest, how long it resonates on your brain or how amazing it is that I have somehow put every unspoken thought you've ever had into 6 small words. Not once have I created a poem while thinking, "This one will surely paint a glorified picture of self harm, drug addictions, rehab visits, repeated rapes, abusive boyfriends and five years of therapy into the readers mind." Never would I write with such intention and never should my words be read for such a purpose. If you are searching for poems with glitter masking the truth, you have come to the wrong place. So if you have the guts to read my poetry, then I dare you to have the guts to read with the same pain it was written with. I refuse to write with raw, bold, and honest words only to wrap a pink ribbon over the bloodshed just to earn the title "tragically beautiful." The words I spill out come from a dark world. Admire them in purest form, ugly and appalling to the eyes.  Why would you want to romanticize the filth that I pour from my mentally ill mind?

I’m the storm
that nobody expects
to cause as much damage
as it eventually does.
So board up your windows
and lock the doors
because
I’m a ******* hurricane.

I don't know the
meaning of content.
I either fly to high
or crash to hard
I'm not sure what it's
like to be in between
the darkness
and the light
Because every day
I'm stuck
at one end
or the other.

Everything around me is falling apart,
and I am trying my best to hold it together,
but I only have two hands.

In 40 years I want
to be able to say
that I still
love the same boy
I wrote poetry for
when I was 17.

..

I am burning from the inside out
And although everyone can *******
See the smoke
Seeping from every pour in my body,
They just watch because
Maybe I'll put myself out?
But how is one person supposed to stop
An entire world from being engulfed in flames?

I want to smash my head through a ******* wall. Anything to make these thoughts stop.
I want to be held and have my forehead kissed, with the words “You are loved” whispered in my ear.
I want hands on chest, hands on neck. I want my neck to turn blue and my heart to stop. Then to start again with a kiss.
I want it all and I want nothing. My mind is so fast and so slow at the same time. Is this why the words come out in random orders?
Is this what it feels like to die??? /??? ??

Maybe the reason we spend night after night
staring at a blank paper
is because the words we so desperately need to write,
are words that have not yet been created.

Call me a *****,
but we both know you enjoyed it.

Pretend you don't know me,
But I've still seen you naked.

Tell me I'm worthless,
But I was worth it that night.

Say what you wish,
But we still had ***.