Her hand in mine, fingers interlocking in a position that seems so natural to us now. In the heat of summer they stick, our palms sticky from sweat as the sun beats down. But I don't mind, as long as her hand is in mine.

Her smile as she laughs at one of my stupid jokes, and I smile back. My arm round her waist as we cuddle up in the warmth of my bed, outside the trees turn all shades of autumn and slowly deposit leaves onto my driveway. But it's okay, as long as next to me she lays.

Her cheeks, rosy from the cool of the air as we lay together under the stars. I gently wrap my scarf around her neck, shivering a little at my own loss of warmth. But I don't care, as long as it is my clothes she wears.

Her eyes, fluttering peacefully as she naps next to me. It has been months apart, so much lost time for us to make up. She shifts, sleepily curling up against my body. My arm is crooked at an angle so I can play with her hair. But I don't mind, as long as she is just fine.

You don't riddle my thoughts in the way that you used to,
back when all I saw on the inside of my eyelids was your face.
Slowly I have moved forwards,
I have made progress and become the person you always wanted to see me be.
But sometimes I still think of you and it feels like a weight is pulling on my heart,
and I get ****** back into the void of missing you.
It's not a feeling dissimilar to the longing of another beside you,
however paired with the craving for that person is the undeniable knowledge that they will never be with you.
It took me a long time to realise that;
you're not coming back,
you're gone forever.
They say acceptance is the first step in moving on,
but what if I don't want to move on?
You are a piece of the person I am today,
you are the part of me that glows and gives me strength to say
"I can do this."
you are the voice in my head telling me
"You are better than this."
you are the smile on my face when I realise I am on the road to recovery,
the worst has passed and one day this will all be just a memory.
So even though you're not coming back,
and even though sometimes I think of you and my eyes blur from tears,
and even though you can never see me become the person you wanted me to be,
I carry your strength and positivity with me always,
you are in my past,
but you are also a piece of my recovery,
which means you are in my future too.

Oh God I miss you.

I miss your laughter,
I miss the smell of your shampoo,
I miss bathing together,
I miss making you moan.

I have made a home,
a nest deep in the hollow of my own sadness,
a space so vast it could be considered a black hole,
infinitely large and consuming all that surrounds it.

I am settled beneath my own ribcage,
in the pit of my stomach where that dead feeling resignates from,
caught with chains and locked with a padlock but my eyes have grown accustomed to the darkness of this internal prison,
when I try to look out, to seek escape, to find freedom,
the light hurts my eyes and I shrink back, retreat into what I know,
my comfort zone,
the void inside me that I like to call home.

What if I mess it up and you realise I'm not
"the one".

What if I break your heart and grind the fragments into a million tiny pieces?

What if I say goodbye only to realise that the word I was looking for was
"Stay".

What if you can't handle the pressure of being with someone so beautifully insane?

What if our differences tear us apart and we end a potential lifetime of laughter with
"Sorry".

What if every "what if" I have in my head destroys us before we even begun?

I'm scared of just about everything.

I'm scared of spiders, they have too many limbs and too many eyes and it makes my skin crawl.
Though I stopped admitting it years ago, I am scared of the dark. When the lights turn off and the sun goes down the idea of being alone with no idea of what is around me gives me goosebumps.
I'm scared of being hurt, even though I am always the one who ends up breaking hearts.
However much I ignore it, I am scared of silence. That complete soundless ringing that fills my head and whisks up my thoughts makes me uncomfortable in ways I cannot describe with words.
I'm scared of getting lost, because even though I want to be spontaneous like the cool girls in the movies the idea of not knowing where I am terrifies me.
Despite everything life has thrown at me, I am scared of being myself. I have a million alter egos and personalities stored in my head because the reality of who I am makes me sick.
I'm scared of outer space, and how one little push can send you floating into the unknown without ever stopping.
Unsurprisingly, I am scared of my mother dying. Through thick and thin she supports me and to this day her warth gives me life in ways nothing else does.
I'm scared of the ocean, because even though I love fish I cannot stand not being aware of what is beneath me as I paddle on the surface.
In a sick and ironic way, I am scared of dying. Despite my wishes for death and suicide attempts, when I am in a dangerous situation my stomach clenches and I cling to the life I have.

I'm scared of just about everything,
including fear itself.

I thought I had it figured out,
you were in my past,
something that helped me grow that I had moved on from.

But now when new seeds have taken root,
your corpse is still in the back of my mind,
not rotten but perfectly preserved and it's beauty takes my breath away.

I wish I could bring us back to life,
or for your body to decompose and allow me to find warmth in another.
Instead you stay untouched like a porcelain doll on a shelf just out of reach,
and make all the other toys seem less special.

Chipped nails and ripped tights,
she is delicate and mysterious and beautiful,
but still so dead inside.

I like to enjoy the little things when I can.

I like the feel of warmth on my back when the sun comes out from behind a cloud,
and the smell of clean bedsheets on a Sunday.
I like the happy feeling I get when my best friend rests her head on my shoulder when she doesn't let anyone else get close.
I like the feel of grass between my toes,
and the feeling fuzzy feeling I get when a cat on the street lets me pet it's head.
I like the taste of alcohol late at night when I'm only half sober but I feel completely alive.
I like how safe and loved I feel when I hug my mum,
and the pain in my stomach when I laugh too much.
I like that odd, welcome silence between friends when there's nothing to say but it's okay.
I like the comfort of my bed after many nights sleeping in foreign places,
and the taste of a cool glass of water when you're out of breath.
I like the feel of putting on my old, worn out creepers and how my feet fit them perfectly.
I like how falling snow seems to muffle everything,
and the satisfaction of beating my brother at one of his games.

Not everything worth living for is a big landmark or an event worth celebrating. Sometimes it is the smallest, most insignificant things that make you feel glad to be alive.

I like to enjoy the little things when I can.

Why do I lay awake,
when my eyes beg to close,
and my limbs ache for rest?

Why do I drink to the bottom of the bottle,
when my head is spinning,
and my mouth is numb?

Why do I bleed,
when my wrist is screaming,
and my sheets are already stained red?

Why do I lay awake,
when I spent the entire day,
looking forward to the thought of sleep?

Let me sleep,
please.
I am so tired of being tired,
I want to rest and forget but you haunt my mind,
both awake and asleep.
I apologise for the millionth time,
crying out for you to forgive me but my words are not heard,
they never will be.
I miss you,
infinitely.
I ache from endless heart ache,
I want to rewind or at least rid my mind of you but I cannot,
both awake and asleep.

How ****** poetic,
A young girl crying locked away in her room,
but the real prison is her own head,
something no key can free her from.
She scrapes at the walls,
of her little enclosed cell,
blood trickling down from her attempts to release it's hold on her,
she shouts out but there are no guards here,
no other inmates or wardens.
She is alone.
An abandoned asylum made just for her,
a special palace of memories and torment with a plaque on the wall to commemorate the curator: herself.
She is imprisoned in her own mind,
somewhere beyond help or saving,
waiting until she rots away and doesn't feel the pain anymore.

I am lost,
searching for a place to call home.
No map,
no compass.

I am lost,
wandering until I find a place to rest.
No warmth,
no safety.

I am lost,
struggling through years hoping I can find what I am looking for.
But I don't know what that is.

Sometimes it is impossible to express myself,
not because I cannot find the right words,
but because I cannot understand what it is that I want to say.
My mind is like all the books I have ever read,
all the TV shows I have ever watched,
all the songs I have ever listened to,
twisted and spinning on repeat all at once and I cannot pick out one single thing,
let alone comprehend it.
I am a muddle of all things good, bad and ugly,
The only thing constant is the beating of the muscle under my ribs,
and even then I sometimes feel like it stops.
When people ask me
"How are you?" or even "Are you okay?"
It is so much easier to reply with a simple "Yes"
Because even though it is not,
I cannot say why.
I don't know what is wrong,
there is a disease in my mind and it is spreading,
and the cure is somewhere deep within my thoughts,
but it is muffled in so much else that I can't find it,
which is funny because I am the cure to my own sickness but I am too sick to find out what the cure is.

Why do we struggle and destroy,
to continue to live,
when it is so much easier to destroy our struggles
and die.

The curve of your spine in the dark,
soft and perfectly shaped to fit just against me like two halves of a whole,
just like our lips, hands,
our hearts,
molding together as if made for one another,
but I chipped,
a piece is missing and no longer do bodies, lips, hands,
or hearts,
fit together so smoothly and I wonder whether you could have ever fixed me?

It comes in waves and surges,
aching in my bones and coursing through my veins,
and I wish I could hate you and curse your name,
but at the end of the day it is I who takes the blame.

I wish I could rewind back,
think to myself stop and think about what is wrong,
because I would see it's not us or you but me
and I could apologise and cry and tell you how much I am sorry but now when the moon is in the sky and my only companions are the scabs on my arms and the ***** burning in my throat my words aren't so clear and my message isn't so simple and I just wish
I could hate you and curse your name,
but at the end of the day it is I who takes the blame.

Hush now,
dry your tears,
I know you wonder how,
it has been going on for years.
Promise me you'll stay,
keep quiet and don't you cry,
Happiness will find you one day,
So please just cling on and try.

A work of art both intricate and simplistic,
a minimalist masterpiece of personality and emotion,
screaming teen heart breaks and whispered memories,
sweeping curves and harsh thick lines crossing and dodging each other to create a piece filled with empty hollow beauty,
embodied as the ****** scabs and old stitched scars painted on her wrists.

And now more than ever I wish I could tell me then what I see now,
because my mind is filled with the colour of your eyes and how they change from bright to a light, almost dusty grey when you're sad,
the feel of your skin when we fall asleep entwined and the smell of your sweaters when we are apart.
And now more than ever I wish I could tell me then what I see now,
because I have realised too late how happy you made me.

each new day that passes i wonder
"if i'd have been there
would you still be here?"
if i had been awake that night and told you it will be okay,
listened to you cry and comforted you until you slept
would things have been different?
if i had supported you,
like you supported me
would my best friend still be with us?

but i guess i'll never know.
i wasn't there,
i wasn't awake,
i didn't support you,
and you're not here.
so i could wonder all i want
but it wouldn't make a difference
would it?

"She thinks way too highly of herself" they say, laughing at another picture that has been uploaded.
But what's so wrong with loving the body you're in?

"He's so up himself" they moan, criticising a tweet about his morning work out.
But what's so wrong with working to become the person you want to be?

"She thinks she's sooo amazing" they laugh, mimicking the voice of a girl who performed in the school talent show.
But what's so wrong with being proud of something you're good at?

"It's so sad, she was so beautiful" they cry, scrolling through the pictures of a girl who was found 2 days earlier, hanging from her bedroom ceiling with a rope around her neck.
But what's so wrong with destroying yourself if it's oh so "vain" to appreciate who you are?

Stop.
It's okay to love who you are.
It's okay to change to become someone you're proud of.
It's okay to flaunt the parts of you that make you smile.
It's not okay to laugh at, taunt, tease, mimic and bully those who appreciate themselves,
but if you do,
don't you dare think it's okay to weep when someone takes their own life because maybe,
just maybe,
if you didn't mock them and instead told them:
"It's okay"
they might still be here,
loving themselves,
rather than sleeping six feet under.

And suddenly my mood drops,
that feeling of wholeness and content vanishes and leaves behind it no trace, as if it was never there.
The void widens and my chest aches,
crawling up through my ribs and spreading across each inch of my flesh and skin until I feel consumed with
e
m
  p
   t
    i
     n
      e
       s
        s
My mind blanks and swirls and gets lost in itself as I try to distract myself from the nothingness that feels as if it is living inside me like a disease,
an incurable illness just waiting to destroy me and as I breathe in
my lungs expand and I become painfully aware of my own fragile
mortality.

Crumbling and wilting,
leaves fallen orange and flowers die but this is not a funeral but a celebration of life and potential and the forthcoming of new seasons.
This is winter.

She cries.
Not tears of sorrow, or loneliness.
She cries the pure essence of pain,
like some ****** extract of the harsh reality of life.
Her eyes are opened and with each blink she pops the bubble we live within,
beyond her years in sadness and hurt and beyond her beauty in hatred.

She smiles.
Not laughter from jokes, or satisfaction.
She smiles the broken fragments of hope and dreams,
each curve of her lips pressing the shards deeper into her skin as it rips open and the feelings she keeps under lock and key spill out,
dripping sweet red desperation onto already blood stained sheets,
and imagines a world where her eyes were not opened to what life really has to offer.

In that fleeting moment
when the dusk of the past drifts
and I see unclouded
my brain wanders and clears
wondering why I ever felt the way I do.
But like any day
any hour or minute,
things change and the descending of my mind's mist is inevitable,
so I savour the moment
and the capture the image of what the world means to be beautiful,
before the fog settles and I'm lost in the darkness once more.

I call out your name,
"Game over!" I cry, "I can't find you! You win!"
But you don't appear with a laugh like when we were children. Of course you don't. This isn't a game of hide and seek. My head spins but my eyes do not stray as I pour the same brand of semi-skimmed milk onto the same whole grain cereal in the same chipped, pottery bowl I did 20 years ago when you sat across from me at the same hard oak table when you told me "Let's get married!". And so we did. Your mother was the priest and your face was bright with youth as you slide that tacky plastic ring from the corner shop onto my finger and kissed my cheek. But this isn't then, and you aren't him. So when I call out "Game Over!" you don't run out from the bushes, knees covered in mud and a smile like starlight on your face. When I take your hand and whisper "I can't find you." you don't respond. You never do, not even a flicker of movement in that once bright eyed face. The only answer I receive is the steady beep of your heart monitor, and the assurance in my mind that indeed, I can't find you any more. So as I slip that old, worn down tacky plastic ring from the corner shop onto your finger and kiss your cheek, I smile softly; my last goodbye. "Game over! I can't find you! You win!" And I turn and nod to the nurse, her eyes sunken with the burden of her job. "Switch him off" I whisper "Game over."

Scratch away the old skin that peels and flakes like old books and watch as I am reborn, new cells grow and my wings open, basking in the sun as they fill with blood, ready to take flight. I am the inevitable oncoming of new beginnings, fresh experiences and growth and all that I need is to shed my faded outer layer and begin to blossom into the daydream outline of the girl I want to be.

my breathing slows
  inhale
  exhale
as i try to figure out where i went wrong
  inhale
  exhale
while my brain spins every tragic tale of a love story broken
  inhale
  exhale
then it stops altogether
and it fades
  black

It makes me sick to think of you two together,
and it seems selfish, I know, but I wish I could break you apart.

I hate to imagine him,
pulling your hair and scratching your back
how I used to.
Him kissing your neck, your stomach and your thighs
how I yearn to.
Him making you moan his name
how I long to.

So forgive me for seeming so bitter,
but when you tell me you've moved on to greener pastures,
don't expect me to congratulate but rather to curse and cry,
how I want to.

How I miss those deep blue ocean pools,
so full of everything I could ever love,
that I almost lost a lifetime gazing into them.
And how I miss those blush pink petals,
that shape together to form something so soft,
that I almost died from kissing them.

a thousand sunsets could not compare,
to the sun in your eyes and the light on your hair.
a million flowers cannot measure,
the fullness of your beauty for you are my greatest treasure.

speak louder i cant
hear what you're saying
why are you screaming i dont
  understand what you are trying to tell me
do you see the shadows move in the
   same ways i do
how are you singing in my head even though your
    lips arent moving and you arent even here
what is wrong with me why do i hear you when
     you dont exist

Your knee high socks make my hands itch,
Begging for the contact that seems inevitable,
Your lips crushing against mine with tongues and teeth and blood from bites,
My hand in between those soft thighs and your moans in my ear,
All because of your knee highs.