Some days are better than others. Today, the sun is shining on my bare skin like the illumination of glass and the empty street means empty anxiety when I sit outside to write. Today is a good day.

Last night was not a good night. I came out to one of my oldest friends, and as she reassured the group for the third time that “I like boys, sorry guys,” the bruise on my foot throbbed as an echo to my heart-- black and blue and yellow with age, but a strong pulse just the same.

Vulnerability is a frightening concept. As human beings, we would much rather hide in secrets and pain than open ourselves up to a world of messes and relationships and hurt and beauty. Whether your bruise is “I'm gay,” “I failed English class,” or “I love you,” it doesn't matter. Discoloration does not discriminate, and as it festers under your fingertips and in the crook of your elbow, your soul will begin to shrivel. While you may be protecting yourself from pain and discomfort, it's nothing compared to the isolation you will feel as you watch girls cry on their mothers' shoulders. Vulnerability may be the scariest moment of your life, but it may also be the most necessary. It's like when little kids get sick and have to take medicine or get a shot. It hurts now, but it'll feel better soon; I promise.

Today has been a good day. Tomorrow might not be. We might end up staring out the window at 2 AM, wondering how the hell we'll find the strength to make it through this. When that moment comes, and it will come, we are going to stare at the kaleidoscope of colors in our bruises, and as black fades to blue fades to purple fades to yellow fades, we will breathe, and we will live another day.

Some days it's hard to breathe. For the past two years, there's been a weight sitting on my chest. Drawing in oxygen feels like hiking through piles and piles of snow just moments after the storm. I don't know where I'm going.
Some days I take my glasses off at school. I like the way the world blurs in front of my eyes and fog settles in the forefront of my vision not unlike the way depression can blind you with only a small shift in perspective.

The first time I wanted to kiss a girl, I was fourteen, and the scars on my hips from feeling too much too young had barely healed. Picture a shy, high school freshman who hadn't yet figured out if she wanted to live. Her breath caught in a cloud of promise and mouth left open just enough to speak if she decided it was allowed, thoughts halted with the wonder of the girl laughing next to her. As the girl simultaneously overflowed with beauty and mirth as only girls can, I was terrified by the prospect of being different. I didn't know if it was allowed.

I went to see my therapist today, and he asked me why I tried to **** myself. I couldn't say it was because of my sexuality because my mother was sitting right next to me. Instead, I said it was because I felt numb. It wasn't a lie, I just left out the part where every Saturday dance class was becoming a steady stream of homophobic monologues and each passing comment left me staring at my wrists more often than the last like a lifeline- a final bridge to Terabithia where I could dance without worrying how my thighs looked and run without worrying about who from and love without the compulsory package of suicide.

My depression started as a fog. It crept over me while I watched powerless and stole away my friends one by one. Misery loves company, and we ran from it in a race to the death but we couldn't opt out. All I have left from what they call my suicide attempt is a vertical scratch on my left wrist where I was too afraid to press harder. I wasn't afraid of death. I was afraid of waking up, and the marathon that would come with it.

Caring about other people when you're sixteen is like trying to complete a long jump from a high school football stadium on Friday night to a parallel universe where heteronormativity isn't even a word in the dictionary and misogyny is nothing more than a scary story told around the Girl Scout campfire- deemed impractical by everyone you know and more terrifying than you could possibly imagine.

         I. When I was in second grade, I became best friends with Hermione Granger. She taught me how to fall in love- with books, with learning. My seven year old self had a newfound adoration for life. When I laid awake at night and pretended to be at Hogwarts, I was free to fly across the night sky on adventures and then sit on my bed and read countless books whose titles I had never even heard before. In my second floor bedroom with the door shut tight, I was free to stop pretending.

         II. Fourth grade was the year I realized I could be good at something. It was also the first time I wrote a poem. It was about math, and I won a contest to have it published in a book filled with poems by other kids across the country. When I figured out how to rhyme math related words with each other to convey how much I hated the subject, I didn't know about the sense of accomplishment that would follow. I didn't know that forgetting about personal censorship was a better idea than listening to the priest who talked to our class every week. No one had ever told me about verbalizing the ink stains under your skin and liking what ends up on the page.

         III. Eighth grade was the first time I felt passionate about feminism. It was also the first time I witnessed the effects of **** culture in my tiny, Catholic grade school. The new boy in our class told girls he wanted to **** them through metaphor, as if objectification is justified by pretty words and a smooth tongue. When we informed our teachers, they promptly ordered us to "be nice" and "stop spreading rumors." Eighth grade was the first time I witnessed the effects of **** culture in myself- a loss of compassion for the boy terrorizing fourteen year old girls instead of learning analogies in English class. Boy is to girl as dog is to meat. God is to disciple as man is to woman- **** culture perpetuated by the word of God and only fifty percent of us knew it was wrong without knowing why. We were never taught to be anything more than meat.

When Hermione Granger was thirteen, she slapped a boy in the face for insulting her friend. Because she cared. Considering my complete aversion to confrontation and irreplaceable, debilitating shyness masking a deep seated feminist rage put into the words of a poet, I derive strength from Hermione Granger. Not the strength to fight on the front lines of an endless war, but the strength to care. It comes from best friends and books alike, but its ability to create bridges of freedom through parallel universes and ink scribbled hastily onto a page filled with ideas brilliant enough to fuel the world for centuries is never compromised. I don't identify with the Catholic church anymore, but I pray you find it too.

Sometimes I can't fall asleep. I wonder if my brain is physically incapable of shutting off; if the thoughts constantly running round my head and through my arms to my shaking fingers and twitching legs have anything to do with her. I think I was a little bit in love with her, to be honest-- if a fourth grader can be in love. I looked at the yellow spots on her teeth and saw a beautiful birthmark- distinguishing the interesting from the dull and the good from the evil. I observed her frizzy, black hair and deemed it noteworthy to the highest extent, and although I don't remember it, I'd be lying if I said I had never dreamt of kissing her. She was so beautiful to me-- an enigma wrapped in a conundrum with a side of a heightened, fourth grade quandary.

The online counseling center of the University of Illinois defines an emotionally abusive relationship as “brain washing that systematically wears away at the victim’s self-confidence, sense of self-worth, trust in their own perceptions, and self-concept.” I'm not quite sure if I'd label a questionable elementary school friendship as emotionally abusive, but looking back, I could never really figure out what bonded us together other than mothers who enjoyed sewing and a mutual lack of trust. Her deficiency was in herself. I was just cement to fill the gaps.

Currently, my chest feels constricted and my hands are shaking like the revolution inside them hasn't yet been won, and neither the rebels nor the authorities can remember what or who they're fighting for. I think it's the caffeine that set it off, but I wouldn't put it past her to inject the cement with poison and shove it back down my throat like medicine. Maybe that's why I've been having trouble breathing.

Last night, I forgot to brush my teeth. I'm not sure if it was because I forgot or because the long term effects of my iron deficiency finally kicked in. The cement hasn't yet hardened enough to fill the cracks.

The longest a human being has ever stayed awake is 264.4 hours, or 11 days and 24 minutes. A study from Harvard Medical School shows that people who are sleep deprived may not realize that they are sleep deprived. Lack of sleep makes people more sensitive to pain. Sleep deprivation leads to paranoid and delusional thoughts. I am not sleep deprived until you confirm it. The monster waiting at my front door does not exist until it has killed. I am not real until you say that I am real.

Yesterday, I almost skipped my shift volunteering at the library because of the hell hound waiting on my front lawn. There was a chain connecting my lungs and its teeth, my palms and its claws, my brain and its beady, yellow eyes-- but the door to my room was steel and my heroes were there to guard it. Next to the door I piled books and a box set of compassion and bound the lock with love and sacrifice. My palms were pale and clammy and I imagined them all standing behind me and breaking the chains-- blowing it away with a kiss and a bang.

If my younger self could see me now.
If mother could hear me cry.
If my best friend could see my panic if the girl who broke my heart could revel in my weakness if my parents-- 16 years ago, with a new baby girl-- could grasp the knowledge that their child would be sleep deprived, devoid of certainty, hurt way on the inside and barren of acceptance for herself-- she gave it all away.

Fading away is less peaceful than you might think. I've been sleeping too lightly and giving too deeply and even though my thighs are toned from years of dancing and my feet are strong from months of overuse, I am not a physical being. I am a thought, a passing whim, a sprinkle of dust on a warm summer wind. I am certain only of my impermanence, but if I haven't been sleeping, certainty is nothing more than a short-lived sentiment capable only of fairy dust with a knack for obstruction. I may be fading away while creating a juxtaposition of reality-- my muscles becoming more dependable and my fingers pounding away on the chains harder than ever while my mind becomes less and less frequent. Feet striking the ground with an assurance unlike the persistent presence of vertigo in my bones-- I am not gone until you say that I am gone.

When I was seven, my best friend and I used to dress up and have tea parties. We wore the torn, hand-me-down dresses from my cousins like they were gowns straight out of a princess’s wardrobe, and we were beautiful. We would prance around my room with purple plastic teacups, and there was no better place to dine than the blue **** carpet from Goodwill.

When I was seven I wanted to be a dancer. Not just a ballerina, no. I wanted to do everything. I watched with rapt attention as my cousin’s modern class tumbled to the floor of the stage, and as I stared at their neon colored tank tops and black jazz pants, it seemed that my world made sense. It seemed that as long as I was there on stage, dancing with the same skill and emotion and passion, I would be beautiful.

For my eighth birthday, my friend gave me the sixth Harry Potter book. My favorite character was Hermione. At recess, we would tie the sleeves of our red uniform sweaters around our necks and run around the blacktop pretending to play Quidditch. I thought Harry was smart and cunning and funny, but Hermione. Hermione was full of enthusiasm and rules and always made friends even if they were only in her head. She was top of her class with hair that everyone noticed and her brain was bigger than her group of friends at lunch and that was okay because she was like me. I never thought Hermione was beautiful. She didn’t need to be. Her bushy hair was full of intelligence and her buck teeth were strong enough to bite off the tongues of her oppressors and her dull, brown eyes weren’t dull at all because even the Whomping Willow began as a patch of dirt.

Hermione wasn’t beautiful like a garden. Her fiery eyes were dancing with flames that could wipe out an entire forest without even breaking a sweat. I have never wanted to be beautiful like a garden or the sunlight on the Fourth of July. As I tumble onstage in a blue dress with a tear in the front, my feet are ***** and my palms are sweaty and not one girl has brushed her hair. Footsteps pound the floor like a mighty pride of lions and hearts race as the bass drops and I am not a garden. Don’t you dare call me beautiful.

The security guard was walking through the courtyard yelling. Lockdown mode. That’s what they do when someone has a gun. When people could die. When your school is on the news and everyone sends your family flowers and homemade lasagna. When I feel an anxiety attack coming, twitching my hands usually helps me calm down. As we were ushered into the auditorium by teachers with faces like a funeral, I didn’t feel the need to move my fingers from where they held one strap of my backpack to my shoulder. I wasn’t sure I could move them at all.

When you read a book about a school shooting, they always talk about the chaos. Kids running away from the unstable teenager with a gun, teachers trying to make sense of the disarray, wondering which window you could safely jump out of. They don’t tell you about the waiting. They don’t tell you about the graveness of the teachers’ faces as they ask you to be quiet. They don’t tell you how a tiny corner of the blackness lifts when your friend texts back. They don’t tell you how you will not stop staring at the door that leads directly to the parking lot, wondering when it will burst open with a crash, a bang, and the color red.

I stared at the stage lights still left on from drama class. I rested my muted white converse on the seat in front of me, then vaguely wondered if a teacher would get angry at me for dirtying a chair while teenagers and adults alike sat wondering who wouldn’t get to go home that day. A girl I’d known since second grade texted me and said her algebra teacher barricaded the door with an old, orange bookshelf. Three flights of stairs between us. My friend told her mom she loved her. Too many miles between them. I thought about my dog, sleeping at home on a green blanket filled with holes. I couldn’t remember the last thing I said to my mom that morning. I couldn’t remember the last time I said “I love you.”

When I read the books, I didn’t realize how scared I’d be. I didn’t realize that my throat would close up like the eye of a tornado and the rock in my stomach would double in size every time the teacher got a message on his radio. When I read the books, I wanted to know if everything would be alright. I turned each page with the raw, nervous energy I was so interested in reading about. But as I sat between my friends on the auditorium seats that were now much too red, I didn't want to know what would happen next. I wanted to grab my friends and run away from the red of the seats that could so easily be echoed in all of their faces a moment too late. As my shaking fingers tapped out a rhythm on my phone, the reassurances from three floors up and the anxiety bombarding me from all angles mixed with the clanking sounds from behind the stage to create a bloodshot mind uncertain of its actuality.

Sometimes I think I’m crumbling from the inside out. I can feel a parasite knawing at the coffin encasing my soul and exposing the pretense of overconfidence for what it truly is- dust.

There was a time when a smile from a man on the street made me feel special. Now it tenses my muscles and knocks on the bedroom door of fight and flight. If it came down to it, I know that acceptance would win.

I once saw a TV special about how coffins are becoming larger and larger because of obesity. When I was eleven, my brain was overweight with the awareness of the novel I would write and the ballet company I would star in. Lately, the obesity of my dreams is directly related to the size of the graveyard residing in my brain like an icy sea frozen mid-breath.

My best friend hurts herself because she doesn't think she’s pretty. I renounced my faith a long time ago, but I always pray that she won’t be among the one in four women who are ***** because a man told them they were pretty.

The leering, drunken man outside the movie theater built my coffin. The disease of his hand stroking my shoulder put out the fire in my brain like malaria kills 1.2 million people each year. Like the 1,871 American women who were sexually assaulted today. My skin still crawls where he touched me and my mind still recoils when I catch myself wondering if my oversized sweater and Converse sneakers were too provocative.

They tell me I'm smart.
They say I shouldn't worry; of course I'll get good grades and get into a good college and get a good job and have a good life.
So I sit in chemistry and I pay attention. I write down the reactions, the calculations. I try, I really do.
Semester grade: C.
"Study more!" "Get off your laptop!" "If you went to bed earlier, you'd pay better attention in class." "It can't be that hard; you just need to put forth more effort."

Sometimes I find it hard to breathe.
My throat shrinks to an impossible size and every mention of a chemical equation is automatically magnetized to the ball of worry in my stomach.

When I get anxious, I pinch my lips.
I haven't had a need for lipstick in a long time.

Sometimes I find it hard to care.
Sometimes I dance to Beyonce and move my hips like I will never have another day to be alive.
I pretend that I am important and the ground moves beneath me while I give life to the stars and bring the moon to earth.
Maybe I can.
During musical theater class, I perform the solo and I act silly and I look stupid and I am okay.

They tell me I'm smart.
Sometimes I can't breathe, and sometimes I do not care.

I was not born afraid of strange men.
I was not born to panic when the only empty seat on the bus is next to a man.
I was not meant to cross the street when a boy walks towards me.
I was not supposed to check the underpass for rapists when I walk home at 4 o’clock in the afternoon.
Were you born to make me itch and crawl in my own skin?
Were you born to sprawl your legs out on the bus and occupy much more space than is necessary while I perch on the edge of a seat and pray that the driver takes the corners slowly?
Were you born to give me sweaty palms and panic attacks and an uncertainty of whether or not I should wear that V-neck shirt to school?

I am going to tell you something that you will not want to hear, but you are going to listen. You are going to listen because I have been glaring and sighing and crying and screaming at you ever since the first time I wore a bra. Since my first period. Since the first time I wore makeup. Since a boy catcalled me before I knew that it was wrong.

You need to stop.

You cannot do this anymore because I will not let you. You are not allowed to follow me home because my hair glimmers in the sunlight- you are an obnoxious boy and I am thirteen. You are not allowed to ask me my name while we’re on the bus- you are a middle aged man and I am sixteen. You are not allowed to stare at my ******* while I debate whether or not to sign up for AP Biology- you are a hair-raising teenage boy and my body is not yours to stare at.

I am not a quiet, soft thing for you to ogle and speak to whenever you please. I am a person, and my favorite pair of socks are green. I am a girl, and the next time you open your legs and overflow into my space, I will sling my foot on top of your lap and ask your age until you understand. I am a human being, and I do not care if you think my hair is pretty. You need to leave me alone.

I am a person. I am strong and sarcastic and lazy and funny and weak and smart and riddled with anxiety, and I will not let you stare at me.

i am a graveyard.
headstones grace my fingertips and rest upon my tongue like they never left.
there is a lump in my throat the size of George Washington's skull.
his bones are propelling themselves towards the insides of my throat and down into my stomach,
where they will churn and grind against my nerves until the
steel bravery in my soul is nothing more than
melted wax.
there is a lump in my throat.
old friends and abandoned dreams earn their satisfaction by shearing away the
pointe shoes and piano keys that used to live there.
the metal jazz shoes and steel guitar that dance on my fingertips fight them off like trained assassins,
but even metal can be melted at 2190.6 degrees Fahrenheit.

i am from a pile of gluten-free pancake mix in the pantry
from a bowl of bananas that are always rotten and a drawer of pens that is never opened.
i am from the patchwork house in the middle of the street that never feels empty of anything.
i am from the rosebushes
the tree at the end of the street whose long gone limbs i remember as if they were my own.

i’m from blonde hair and adopted siblings.
i’m from introverts and lovers of books
and from driving around the country every summer because plane tickets are too expensive.

i’m from the Easter bunny and Santa Claus
and “say sorry to your brother.”
i’m from stir fry on Sundays.
i’m from Omaha and all over Europe
and potato soup and homemade bread.
from the time my brother fell down the stairs and hit his head on the wall.
from the quilt my grandmother began that now lies incomplete in a trunk in the back of the attic.

if god walked towards me
with open arms, saying
"let me save you"
i would turn away
and take my sister's hand
because
when you're home
you are saved

eyelids closed
brain running running running
white noise going going going
static brainwaves condemning exhaustion to another twenty minutes of
failed surrender
twenty
twenty-one
twenty-two
twenty-three

turn the heater off
on
another blanket
different shirt
no blankets
favorite hoodie

you brush your teeth for the third time
sit in the kitchen and eat an apple
leave the core on the counter like a
statement of your sanity.

there are lots of different ways to tell someone you love them.
            (it’s a pain in the *** to burn music onto a blank CD and handwrite a track list)
there are so many signs we miss as we are crudely blanketed and silenced by the alarm of being emotionally disarmed and unprepared for war.
            (i can’t believe you still try to make me throw up my feelings and set them at your feet as a sacrifice)
humanity’s horrific tendency to dismiss our most crucial feelings and toss them down the garbage disposal is, more often than not, a reflection of how we treat ourselves.
            (i’m never gonna quit reminding you how pretty you are, so shut up and take the compliment)
the basis of our existence resides solely on how we perceive ourselves, so why don’t we take a closer look?
            (i will never understand why you can’t see how talented you are. you’re not that stupid)
the precision in which all of our flaws and quirks fit together is the equation to which we are the answer. if you solve all of them simultaneously, then your world would end up containing a significantly deficient amount of peculiarity.
            (dork)

Sometimes it’s hard to breathe.
Sometimes the world closes in on your lungs like the
mountains need your breath and the ocean wants your soul.
Moonbeams of indefinite prosperity gleam down upon your skin like
a bridge made of children’s dreams.
They dance along your goosebumps, trying to calm your racing heart.
You cannot see,
you cannot hear.
All you know is the deceptively comforting pale, white walls of your world,
but you do not live in a world,
you live in a cage.
You have never closed your eyes and let yourself be
guided by the wind,
an everlasting pool of transparent anger trying to rule the world,
but never getting farther than vice president.
You will never know the deep blue waves crashing methodically onto the shore,
howling and groaning their way through a job that they will never finish.

Oceans can be selfish, you know.
They own 70% of the world and they’re still not satisfied.
Their deep blue rivers of fear snake their way under our skin and into our veins,
never content until we define ourselves by anxiety and pain.
Cages may hide us from the waves, but they also shield us from our own hidden hearts,
wallowing in the loneliness of pale, white walls with a transparent roof that yields
only to prosperity that is no longer indefinite.

People always say that ballet is graceful. They speak for hours after watching a performance, marveling at the dancers’ grace and elegance. They applaud enthusiastically while gazing at the stage in awe. They see a title page, a disguise, a mask. Underneath the surface of bright lights and happy endings, there is nothing but a dark stage occupied by a girl naked, shivering, and alone. Her face is engulfed by quivering hands covered with dry, cracked skin and fingernails blue from the cold. Her hands slowly reach out to comb through brown, lifeless hair. When she draws her hands away to rest against protruding ribs, brittle hair floats delicately to the ground like a feather cruelly cast away from its owner. Tears barrel their way down her cheeks like a train unable to stop for the oblivious children playing on its tracks. Her body is nothing more than an abandoned painting, fixed and perfected beyond recognition. Her ankles quiver beneath satin chains of beauty and grace. Her fingers tremble as they graciously bow to rows and rows of awestruck admirers. Her legs falter as they are barely contained within the confines of the tutu so painstakingly stitched just for her. Her head spins, dizzy under the pressure of the tiara: crowned queen of the mentally ill.

2 cups of insecurity
4 ounces of comparison
1 cup of dinner not eaten.
5 cups of a mind in shackles
6 tablespoons of incomprehension
2 ounces of oblivious peers
3 cups of dinner not eaten.
3 teaspoons of phantom numbers
2 cups of anxiety
4 cups of mirrors smashed to bits
1 pint of self-hatred
4 cups of dinner not eaten.
1 tablespoon of depression
6 ounces of anger
2 pints of hopelessness
3 cups of self-inflicted scars
4 teaspoons of ribs in the mirror
5 cups of fainting on the stairs
1 gallon of dinner not eaten.
6 cups of grieving families
4 tablespoons of words unspoken
3 teaspoons of tears unshed.
2 cups of dusty belongings
4 gallons of friends never made
3 teaspoons of kisses never stolen
a lifetime of words left unsaid.

Melt insecurity and comparison and mix thoroughly with dinner not eaten. Mix a mind in shackles, incomprehension, and oblivious peers and add three more cups of dinner not eaten. Crush phantom numbers and anxiety and sprinkle over batter. Take each piece of mirrors smashed to bits and poke them carefully through self-hatred. Mix with four more cups of dinner not eaten. Melt depression, anger, and hopelessness and spread them thoroughly throughout the batter. Meticulously place self-inflicted scars visibly on top of the mixture. Cover with ribs in the mirror and fainting on the stairs. Mix with one gallon of dinner not eaten. Haphazardly toss in grieving families, words unspoken, and tears unshed. Mix with dusty belongings, friends never made, and kisses never stolen. Gather a lifetime of words left unsaid in a separate container. Take it outside and bury it. Do not mark the grave site.

we see countless magazines every single day
“no, you’re supposed to look this way.”
I can’t believe what I’ve been taught
either you’re pretty or you’re not.
it doesn't matter who you are
or if you’re brighter than a star.
my hands are tied, my words are set
how do I start a brand new thread?
my story is written, already done
who are you to hold the gun?
is it me or is it you,
wearing the dress that is brand new?
your propaganda has taken its toll,
but my combat boots are on a roll.
I’m sick of ideas shoved in our minds
I’m not that stupid, I know your kind.
I’ll kick and shove ‘til I get out of here
now I know there is nothing to fear.
your minds are complacent, your hearts are unkind
I will be the one to step out of line.
so get out of my way; I won’t stop ‘til I’m done
look at me: now I’ve got the gun.

the heart is a place of exile and stone
opened: the unwanted are set to roam.
hurt species and minds crushed down to a dust
wilted flowers, dead trees; rain is a must.

thoughts circle like rainfall; heartbeat not so
clouds upon clouds upon friend upon foe.
seas of disappointment flood without fear
some people are happy; that is not here.

cellars of evil and rivers of pain
rope tied around smiles with nothing to gain.
thrones of goodwill beaten down to the floor
exhausted and dying; fighting no more.

some people are happy; that is not this
crying and dying with no touch of bliss.

when I was five, my parents gave me a book about a rainbow fish instead of the princess one I wanted. waterworks began.

when I was six, I checked out a book from the school library about the tooth fairy. I read it over and over again because I was too nervous to return it.

when I was seven, I started taking dance lessons. my teacher had bright blonde hair that she always kept in a ponytail. I wanted to be exactly like her.

when I was eight, I learned how to write in cursive. I made a point of showing my teacher how the lowercase 's' looked like a Hershey's Kiss.

when I was nine, I wrote an essay for school about a cat. my teacher told me I didn't have to revise like the other kids because I had already written it so well. I was ecstatic.

when I was ten, my best friend moved away and I cut my hair short. it was the first time I had to learn how to start over.

when I was eleven, I argued myself to tears on the playground, thus discovering passion.

when I was twelve, I almost tripped down the stairs after school every day because I refused to put my book down.

when I was thirteen, I made my way into a group of friends that had hearts of gold and eyes of steel. we felt invincible.

when I was fourteen, I watched as by best friend silently collapsed into a heap of tiny, broken pieces. I learned that the nicest people can be incredibly hard headed.

now I'm fifteen. I don't know everything, but I do understand that life never goes as planned. I understand that we are wonderfully accustomed to adapting to unprecedented circumstances. I understand that picking yourself up off the bathroom floor time and time again takes strength and resilience. I understand that you're good at being you, and that is always a compliment.

what gives you the right to tell me who i am?
who gave you the right to try and hold my hand?
do you want to be dehumanized;
     dissected and put on display?
when i tell you the truth, you can't even muster the courage to say
that i am a human being with respect, but none from you.
my heart beats with the intelligence that yours lacks
i can't believe you've convinced so many people of your love for respect and justice and loyalty and
darling, if no one notices your hatred does that mean it's still there?
my hair blows in the wind that you've created
in the world where i don't matter.
and in the cardboard box that is life
you are the box and i am the tape because
most times i'm not appreciated until i am gone.
if a tree falls in the woods, does that mean it makes a sound?
dear god, i can't believe the mess that i've found.
you put us in the corner and said "don't you dare make a sound."
my heart is racing, deep breaths while it pounds.
you hurt until you're gone
but oops, no one cares.
it's hard to win the fight when they want you to be lighter than air.

my mind is a black hole of unwanted necessities.
merely a trash pile of heartbroken memories.
a garbage can of 'what-ifs'.
too many corners,
not enough time.
too many songs,
not enough rhyme.
i want to run
i want to climb
i want to expand the endless borders
   of my only mind.
why
can't
it
happen.
why
can't
it
be?
why am i made up of just disheartened memories?
my landscape is soft
my scars are sad
why do i only want all the things that i once had?
beaten-down borders represent
   where i once stood.
i always swore that i would never be anything but good.
i can't say that what you've done to me makes me glad
but dear mind,
   at least now i appreciate what i once had.

it was stupid, really.
nothing more than a glitch in the usual system
     just a little bump.
but then you left and
i
couldn't
breathe.
heart pumping
breath racing
fingers shaking.
unintentional
self-inflicted
suffocation.
i can still feel my ribs against my arms when i
     hugged my stomach
looking somewhere
     a  n  y  w  h  e  r  e
for
air.
let me tell you something
breathing is so incredibly simple
     until it's not.

i wish you would stop caring
then
i could
die
in
         *peace.

i hate mirrors.
usually because i hate what glares back at me.
there's an awful moment of realization that
i
can't
change.

i hate mirrors recently
because ten minutes ago i didn't recognize the eyes staring back at me
looking for answers.
the meaning of life
how to not be sad
what to do when you want to die.
i don't know how to change that either.

i don't know if i believe in religion.
i know i believe in god
and i believe in good.

i believe in papers scattered across a writer's desk.
i believe in band-aids covering blisters on a dancer's toes.
i believe in the sweat on an athlete's face.
i believe in the love of a best friend.

i believe in the heartache that comes with breathing.
i believe in the pain that comes with living.
i believe in the scars that come with hurting.
i believe in the color red that comes with not believing.

my air conditioner is broken.
the attic is hot and humid.
the air swirls around slowly and lazily as if it isn't causing any discomfort.
as if isn't causing me to take off my shirt and stare at my scars.
pink, purple, white
it's a collage of colors no one would pay to see.
a heartbreaking representation of fragmented human souls left to hurt in peace.

my mind is broken.
my body is numb and miserable.
my thoughts bounce off the sides of my skull as if they weren't pouring salt into my wounds.
as if they weren't pointing at me and whispering to their friend about how grotesque i am.
fat, ugly, worthless
it's a novel of humanity no one would care to read.
a dying representation of why we weren't smiling that day at lunch.

once there was a boy
with zipped up lips and scars on his heart
he met a girl
they never spoke
she saw the slashes on his wrist
but she didn't know how to communicate
what it means to care

i am most definitely your best friend
if
you
want
me
to
be.

i am most definitely the sun in the sky
if
you
see
it
as
so.

i am most definitely the snake in the garden
if
you
see
me
that
way.

i am most definitely the  lonely girl in the corner
since
i
see
me
that
way.

sometimes i kind of hate you
you abandoned me to make out with some guy the other night
while you were gone i sat there singing to myself
      i wondered to no one
      ******* to the air
      wished you were there

i didn't have some life-changing realization
i just thought
if we're best friends and this is how you treat me
then what should i expect from my future husband
      family
      acquaintances
      strangers
      myself

i love you and you're my
best
friend
i swear

i think i'm yours too
i just don't know if this is how best friends
are supposed to act
because there have only been two
there's you
and there was her

and i don't know if feeling like **** is normal
because that's what happened before too

once i read that when it rains, the angels are crying.
why doesn't it rain when i cry
i'd hug you when you're sad
i'd yell at that boy who hurt you
even though i'm afraid of confrontation

once i talked to a boy for you
i was scared out of my mind
i wanted to run away and never come back
i still don't know where that courage came from
maybe it was you

you're my best friend
you taught me to fight dragons
jump into the ocean
talk to strangers
leap at the stars and grab them with both hands

without you
my dragons would have burnt me to death
i would have drowned in my ocean
my strangers would have never heard my voice trembling and shaking from fear
so much fear
without you
i wouldn't know what stars looked like up close

so maybe when it rains, you're the one crying
because you're my angel

you can’t tell me i’m not forgotten until you’ve been the kid that parents never talk to.
you can’t tell me i’m not unloved until you’ve been the grandchild that grandparents never travel for.
you can’t tell me i’m not ugly until you’ve been the girl always scrutinized for her weight, hair, skin, and everything in between.

you can’t because you are remembered
you are loved
you are beautiful
      breathtaking
      gorgeous
      lovely
impeccably striking in every way, shape, and form.

you can’t say you’re forgotten
you can’t say you’re unloved
you can’t say you’re ugly
you can’t
i can

i'm tired
i want to stop running
so
badly

my lungs are flaming
my legs are throbbing
my heart is burning
i'm suffocating
i can't breathe
i
can't
breathe
please
let
me
go
please

i don’t understand how you can say everyone is equal
say you love and respect all human beings
then turn around and spit at my friend’s feet
i love her
not the way she will love another girl someday
but is it so wrong that a single boy or girl might find a slight piece of
happiness
in the midst of this vat of cruelty we call our world

i don’t understand how you can put on such a mask, so sad about a boy’s suicide
and then laugh about a girl wounding her skin
about a boy crying late at night
my friend wanting to die
is it so unreasonable that they (we) might want an escape from
cold cruel mean torturous unkind despicable malicious hatred
you

i don’t understand how you can believe that skin color determines
character
that because of how my sister was born she is this
because of how my brother was born he is that
because now i have become your puppet
i am whatever you want me to be
whatever i am needed to be

you are not my character

i used to get this feeling
that the world was really great
i remember playing hopscotch in
the driveway with the
sun shining
like the most
beautiful
thing
a beacon of
light
from god himself
i remember dancing
in the backyard with
the sprinkler on
water
flying
skirt
jumping
neighbors
smiling
i was
happy
i used to climb that one
tree at the
park
i called it
mine
one day they chopped off the branch i
always
sat on
not mine
i wanted to be a
dancer
ballerina
enchantress
mom said
no
not
good enough
not enough
money
do something
practical
i just wanted to create
magic
and touch the
stars
that was when
the sky got
blacker
and
the world got
bleaker
then i looked
at other girls
long
legs
thin
arms
soft
hair
pretty
face
me.
thicklegsfatarmstangedhairuglyface
better
o­ff
dead.
pale skin spiderwebbed
with red
red words
red lines
pink scars
dead eyes
all of a sudden the
world
wasn’t that great
then came
the pills
the
tears
the bed
dead