"I'm in trouble aren't I?"
"You have no idea..."

"Wanna know something?"

"Are you going to say the same thing,
Like you do every time?
You know.. if you hadn't done this...
Sort of thing?

"Save your breath mate,
I've heard it all before
Why don't you say something new,
Instead of parroting the same **** every time?"

"Like seriously,
Why are you even talking to me?
You wanna gloat don't you?
"Haha, you've been caught and I win".

"Well ******* *******,
I'm not hearing it
Why don't you leave me alone
And go choke on a bucket of ****."

I've been waiting for the day
that my footsteps
are quiet enough
for me to walk across the room
and not make a sound.

I've been waiting for the day
that the only thing
you can hear
when I sit down
are my bones clicking
against themselves.

and I've been waiting for the day
that I can look at myself
and not want
to make myself sick
because of the way
I see myself.

see,
I don't have
the best perception
of life
or anything, really
I can't tell you
what is real and
what is fantasy
but I can tell you
that my days
are getting shorter
and my time
is running out
and I want you to know
that I have never felt
more loved
than when I was
cuddled up
safe and sound
in your arms.

I'd say goodnight
Except you wouldn't hear
The misery dripping from dry lips
So frozen with fear

I'd say goodbye
Except I'd see you again
But it'll hurt watching a stranger
When they were your friend

I'd say good luck
But I know that you won't need it
You already have everything
So I guess you won't receive it

I'd say come back
Only it'd hurt twice as bad
Because I'm used to sadness
But I hate getting mad

And I'd swing from the rope
For my sins I would choke
But you'd probably cut me down again
So that path is a no

I guess I can't quit
I guess I'm not done
Maybe somewhere out in the world
I can have some fun

I wanna feel that again..,

Let me write about how dark rooms make me think about it.
Let me write about the pain I inflict upon myself.
The timid hope I have that doesn't fear my cynicism.
The brief moments of belief, of yearning,
That at times last too long.
Let me write of things I know nothing of.
Let me write, because that's all I know how to do.

I'm six years old. I'm six years old and my favourite colour is green because it's the colour of my eyes and I think my eyes are the prettiest things I have ever seen.

I'm eight years old. I'm eight years old and I had a nightmare so bad I felt like my eyes were deceiving me. My favourite colour is now the same pale blue as my Mum's floral bedsheets because they make me feel safe.

I'm ten years old now. I'm ten years old and I'm a big girl because I'm allowed to walk to school with my friend instead of my Mum. We walk past fields of buttercups and other pretty flowers but my new favourite colour is the peach of the rose in my front garden.

I'm twelve years old. I'm twelve years old and I can't stand the colour green anymore because the meaner people in my school decided my self worth was less important than their jokes. I don't have a favourite colour anymore, but if you ask I'll say it's purple.

I'm fourteen years old. I'm fourteen which means I've been a teenager for a year and I still can't stand the colour green. My Mum let me dye my hair for the first time and now it is red and red is my favourite colour, but if you asked I would still tell you it's purple.

I'm sixteen now. I'm sixteen and I think I know everything, I met a boy that I like for the first time, my Mum doesn't know, but I think he makes the colour green a bit easier to look at because he told me he loves my eyes and that they are the most beautiful things he has ever seen. He gave me a pair of rose tinted glasses and I'm not quite sure why, but for now my favourite colour is the deep brown of his eyes but if anyone asks, my favourite colour is still purple.

I'm eighteen now. I'm eighteen and I can finally drink without it being illegal, and I have started drinking to forget everything except the colour of my Mum's pale blue floral bedsheets, the peach of the rose in my front garden, the bright red of my hair and the green of my eyes but most of all I'm drinking to forget the purple of the bruises that litter my skin, the purple that I always insisted was my favourite colour for reasons unknown to me.

I should be twenty years old now, and my favourite colour should be the orange of the sunset, the pink of the sunrise or maybe even the yellow of the buttercups in the fields I used to walk past on my way to school, but I did not make it to twenty years old. My favourite colour was never purple and I never asked for my skin to be constantly tainted that way, but you made sure I never healed and now my Mum is laying purple flowers on my grave and she's wishing she fought more to get my favourite colour to be green again like when I was six years old and in love with myself and the world around me, because if I still loved the innocent green then maybe I wouldn't be suffering my greatest nightmare as a child with the only comfort being tucked up in the seemingly endless sea of brown. I always tricked myself and everyone else into thinking things were perfect with rose tinted glasses but the lenses shattered and the last flower you laid on my grave was the peach coloured rose from my front garden, and now the petals have wilted and all of the colour has been drained from me but this new world has more hues than I could have ever dreamed of.

Today, I looked in the mirror and I noticed that my left collarbone pokes out more than my right. I noticed that one of my eyes is a deeper green that the other, and that one of my arms is just a smidgen longer. In the garden, I noticed that no two roses have the same amount of petals, no two blades of grass are the same height and no two trees have the same number of leaves. See, it got me thinking about you and I. It got me thinking about how neither of us said "I love you more." We rarely said "I love you too." It was always just "I love you." And it got me thinking that if no two roses, if no two trees, if no two arms on the same human body are the same, then maybe my "I love you" was different to yours. I know that when I told you I loved you, I meant I loved you. I loved every part of you, every nook and every cranny of your body, every inch of your mind and every skeleton in your wardrobe. ****, there are so many skeletons. And maybe when you said "I love you" to me, you only meant that you loved the better sides of me. The smiles and the funny hair colours and the softer parts, or the parts that turned you on and touched your whole body until you were shaking underneath me. The parts of me that are whole. Maybe you didn't love my empty spaces. And maybe love is always different, maybe you'll never love me the way I loved you but maybe it's too ******* late for you to try.