I have to steady myself
when I think about your rough skin
worn with battle scars
and tattoos.

I bite my lip
at the thought of your thick eyeliner
around those eyes that are forever blue with youth.

My ears ring
with the longing to hear
that deceivingly young voice
with that funny crackle

I can't tear my eyes from you
as you roll
then light
a cigarette faster than I blink

My back arches
when I think of you
so often
in that way.

You are my life.
my universe.
my fantasy
my reality
my all and everything.

To you I'm an ant,
a petty pup to pet.

But I don't mind.

I don't mind how you smell of smoke
or that when you breath it out
my lungs disagree and cough.

I don't mind that you probably know how you effect me
and that your wish is my command
my heartache
and that if you look at me and say you want a change
I won't hesitate to cut it off
or starve
or drown
and blacken my lungs
I don't mind that you are a demon
I so happily let corrupt me.

I sigh so often at the thought of you.
Beautiful and deadly
grotesque and graceful
ashy like you crawled up from the depths below.

I admire how sick you are,
I lovingly dote on your whims
I worship you no matter what they say
no matter how dark you seem
no matter how I know it kills away what I once was.
but it doesn't matter
and I don't mind,
because you make me happy.

They told me I looked beautiful
in that long purple dress,
and I so would have liked to compliment them back
and carry on a conversation-
but I only said "thank you"
and could not force another word out.

I don't understand why it's so hard.
Why my brain shuts down
in fear of having to speak.

why when he jokes about his fear of Luna Bars
my mind laughs and says "and why is that?"
but in reality all I said was an awkward "oh?"

why when they attempt to discuss
and associate
and connect
I gain a one syllable one maybe two word vocabulary.

I don't understand why my voice is so afraid.

I've always been told,
since I was a kid,
that I was mean.
I'm told it nearly every day.
So I try my hardest to be the nicest person I can be
and sacrifice my limbs and time
to helping others
and worrying about them
all backed by the fear that I'm not nice
and I think I'm nice
but at the end of the day
there's always someone to say
"You're really mean"
which sends me into a depression.
I go home and cry
and try harder the next day
and keep trying and trying
trying to be nice
but again I'm always told that I'm mean
almost as if the harder I try the meaner I get
and today when he told me I was really mean
and an awful person
I stopped talking
drove him home
and then cried in the car and sat in an empty room
and cried some more
and I'll never understand
how no matter how hard I try
there's always someone there
to tell me I'm cruel.

I can't cope with reality.
and it's getting bad.
really bad.
I don't do my homework
I don't do my chores
or play with the dog
or hardly even stay online anymore.
I go to school and I zone out
in a dead depression.
my whole body weighing a thousand pounds
at having to be alive.
I come home and I sit in an almost-asleep-like state,
and if it's not that then it's a full sleep and I sleep till five am
and take a slow
scorching hot shower
and go to school and press repeat.

It's worse than before,
with the ever looming tragedy of adulthood closing in
and my low grades
and my illnses
and existing for my 17th year.
17 years... too long.

I can't cope with reality,
if my odd aloof ways
and ugly blank face were not enough of a hint.

I can't get a job because I'm too inept
and it's all too hard for me
and scary
and I've written that it's scary and hard
a million times
but I can't help but repeat that
like I repeat my schedule
and jokes
and lies and truths
and clothes
and bland routine
i just repeat that because it's so true
and nobody seems to understand
that when I say that being alive is hard,
I really mean it.
I mean it from the core to the stars
from my bones to ashes
from every comparison you can think of
being alive is hard,
it's always been hard
and it's getting harder and harder
and I can't cope
and all this sleeping
trying to hide in my dreams
it's not enough
there's not enough hours in the day to sleep
and dream
and run
that's all I want to do is run
run far away from thsi world.
and I'm panicking
every moment of every day
it never ends
I'm getting overwhelmed
and I'm going to burst
and if a knife is in my hand when it happens
so be it.
because death is just another word for a long sleep,
and when I think about sleeping for an eternity,
it brings tears to my eyes with how good it sounds.
really good.
the best.

Did I grow up too fast?
or not at all?

I don't know why my heart stopped when I saw you.
I don't know why I fumbled over my words more than usual.
I asked you twice nearly thrice how you were doing
and tripped into the desk
and shuffled my piles of books onto the desk-
God I was so awkward
but you just smiled and shook your head-
like you did long ago.
You asked me what I was doing
and my brain rocketed to the ends of the earth and back
desperate to find something cute, clever, and witty to say,
I so badly wanted to be interesting-
for you to think I'm interesting-
But somehow the only thing I managed to say was
"nothing"
and you smiled and looked at me with those big,m familiar brown eyes
and I couldn't place how I felt.
I couldn't keep myself from remembering.
I felt so safe in your arms,
wandering the forest
and napping in that boat
at the edge of that lake
while the party raged behind us on land.
I thought it was cool that you had been to juvy
and I'm a sucker for asians
and you didn't mind that I was a loser
and the way you pulled me closer
and burried your face in my neck-
I've only ever wanted to feel safe,
and I felt safe with you.
and today as I fumbled to act normally
I saw that you still didn't care that I was a loser,
and in all your steroid-esque muscle
and thick bag that you had put yourself together
after your third round at Juvy last year.
I don't think I ever liked you,
and you never liked me,
so I don't know what it is I feel
or why I stumbled so,
but I have a small fear inside
that worries this feeling is from seeing
that you are very much different from then,
and I am very much the same.

Nothing depresses me more
than when a picture is taken.
A day of bliss
but when the camera comes out
I suddenly remember
how ugly I am.
Even on the days I feel pretty,
I smile and it flashes-
and the results bring me to tears
for even though I know I'm a heinous beast,
born with a pig's face
isntead of a human,
I still always wonder why I was cursed like this.
why I am perpetually a mutant.
I still have hope that I'll be satisfied with a picture one day,
that I won't grimace
and cry
and not feel a tremendous amount of guilt for the swans
that have to share the same photo as I,
and that maybe this nasty pink pudgy acned pig face will peel off.
I know it won't.
But I can hope.

I hate you 'cause you're skinny
and I hate you 'cause you're pretty
and I hate you 'cause you're clever
and you're nothing oh but better

I hate you 'cause you're perfect
in every which way
I hate you 'cause you're magnanimous
and quite simply glamourous.
I hate you 'cause you have it all
and if you don't, you can get it.
I hate you,
cause you are
and you have
everything I've ever wanted
everything I'll never have,
I hate you for being born blessed
and great
and sultry
and fine
and somewhere down the line,
you'll be perfectly content.
I hate you for being happy
I hate you for being you.
I hate you
because I won't say
that it's me I really hate.

I need to read more
and study the dictionary
and ask more questions
and read philosphy
and stop wasting time on Pinterest
pining for things I don't have the drive to work for
and think more-

so then maybe I can learn how to speak.

I feel so many things,
everything.
I feel each breath,
heartbeat,
conversations across the room
I feel the sun burning
and the moon glowing
and the ferocity of the wind
and each smile
and sigh-
I feel everything
and I feel it too much
to the point where it builds up
and becomes numb.
I am weighted
with all these feelings
and thoughts
and jokes
and fears-
but I don't have the words to express them.

In my fantasies,
the perfect man,
the perfect friend,
is one that doesn't badger me to speak more
and make idle conversation,
but one that knows what I feel just by looking at me,
one that breathes my silence
and understands that putting words to these emotions
is far too difficult a task-
but that's a silly fantasy,
everyone else talks
so why shouldn't I?

I write poetry in hopes
I'll find a proper,
eloquent way to
announce my feelings
but they just jut out like ugly spores
in the form of average teen angst
and I look at my work - even my best -
and think
"no no no, that's not right.
It's more complicated and painful and beautiful-
no no it's so much more than this"

it's silly of me
to think that in a world so loud
I can be silent and happy.
Not that I'm dying to be happy,
in fact I quite like the misery,
silence is the only thing I truly strive for.
In a way, for me, silence is a native language,
and speaking is foreign and hard to learn
and all the while I try my best to learn-
I want someone to also try to learn
the much underpreciated silence.
silence is an important language of it's own,
one often disregarded
but it's the only language I comfortably know.

It kills me how hard I try to speak,
but that's not the point,
I just wish someone else would take a chance
to understand the silence.

I was brought into this world by that not of my own choosing.
I was given a face and a name I cannot come to terms with.
I was raised by beings I've had too little time to observe and thus, do not understand them.
I was garbed in itchy fabrics that play too much of an important role in this society.
I was raised up and told to go forward on these stilts I can hardly maneuver-toddling as I go.
I was built from links of mineral, calcium phosphate, and collagen which was fitted with a skin prison,
then drowned in blood and excess organs
and told to live.
I was born to buy and sell and work and love
and to force offspring into these bone brackets and tell them
to do what I have done- for the sake of what?
After many years I cannot work the stilts
or understand my name
and the pollution they injest so heartily does not agree with my lungs
nor the gravity that keeps them barely grounded
keeps me barely able to lift a finger from it.
It seems they all learn to live in their own way
and do and don't with purpose
and exist as they should
carrying on like their parents-
but I watch from the diagonal,
evermore obstructed from their ways.
too little time
yes too little time I've had to study-
I wasn't ready when I was brought here
and by all that is orphic I was brought by mistake.

I'm a stranger in human skin
an alien in a person's world
a broken cog mixed in with upside-down and backwards instructions
devastatingly incompatible with all my fuzzy eyes can see.

I wasn't meant to be here
and I didn't come by choice.
I was forced in
and I must force my way out.

ducked by the toilet
fears and sorrows
vomiting hoarsely
I can't help but wonder
will the pain ever end?
Will I ever be satisfied?
I can starve myself all I want
and purge all the food
and never stop the exercise
but when will it change
when will I finally look okay
I weighed 135 once
that was just a few months ago
I weigh 110 now
and that's not drastic enough,
I can do better,
I can do better,
Will the pain end?
I don't know.
Should I just take that razor and end it now?
no,
no,
because deep down I know
that one day,
someone will love me
and I'll be okay
and that it'll all come together
if I just do better.
so I wrap my stomach and sweat disgust
***** my organs if I can
throw the food away--
I can do better,
I know I can.
I need Ana's help,
she's always there,
encouraging me.
I believe in Ana
and Ana believes in me.
I'll destroy myself
until I feel okay.
Again and again
until the pain numbs.
I'll never stop,
because I can do better,
I know I can.

The performers stand with their backs turned,
awaiting to be called.
Each one filling with emotion.
It's their last show,
their last improvisational moment with each other,
before they depart for what is most likely, forever.
They have tears in their eyes,
comedy to cover it up.
The audience is crying too,
repeating "Aws" and "ohs"
and there I am,
crying too.
Half because it's sweet,
and I'll miss their existence,
and half,
because I know that that will never be me.
When I depart,
it will be quietly
and with the usual ****** on my chest.
Who will be there to weep for me?
Who will be there to notice I am gone?
These actors, so glorious,
their absence is impossible to miss
and it makes you feel sad inside...
And I cry,
I cry for them and the others,
and a bit of each tear
is dedicated to the absence
no one will notice
when I depart.
By death,
by choice,
by life,
I'll disappear,
and there'll be no one there
to hug me
and miss me
and laugh to cover their tears.
I'll just go,
on my own,
filled with memories
of the actors who departed
with a family holding hands around them,
hurting from the longing and love.
I'll just go.
and the only tears,
will not be for me.

I woke up on monday,

and,

being frightfully ashamed of my bloated pig face

and stringy hair

and thick arms,

I stayed home and locked in my room,

wishing I could remain there always.

Like hot wax
I melt
hoping to fall to your lips
and burn them a heavy red.

Like a box cutter
I use my nails and make scars on your wrists
and my tongue laps the blood that pours.

Like a syringe
I feed into you
and currate the disease.

Like a cigarette
I beg you to breath me in
even if it kills you.

Like alcohol
I want you to drink me
until you lose control.

Like ***
I want you to crave me
and scream your arousal.

Like an addiction
I want you to need me
every hour
of every day.

I thought I was doing so well
and lost so much weight
and hell I felt pretty
and I put on that dress
that ugly blue dress
and I thought I looked okay
and was proud to look okay
in that ugly blue sparkly dress,
but then she took pictures
and showed me the result
and I nearly broke down crying at the horrific sight.
Hiding my tears, I finally realized
no amount of dolling up
and no amount of weight loss
is going to make me pretty.
I'm ******* ugly
and a nasty little swine
a fat porker pig
a mole on the earth's pretty face
coal that can't become a diamond
a face to make goblins laugh
I'm ******* ugly
and that's all I'll ever be.

I didn't know I wanted you until I saw you in that tux,
holding her hand,
lord, she looked beautiful.
so **** beautiful it ruined my night.
She's tall with clean skin and luscious hair
and a smile that lights up the room ,
and she gets you-
thinks like you
she's clever and so ****** poised and stunning-
what must I look like compared to her?
what does the mud look like to the diamond?

The way you scoot closer
and touch me
and laugh with me
and hug me
and make every excuse to have me leave class with you
even though you could do what you've always done
and ditch by yourself
and opening up to me
and I wanted you to be my friend
but I didn't know until today
I wanted it to be more.

It's unfair of me to feel sad
at seeing you with her
or angry at her because she's so perfect-
it's unfair of me to be jealous
or to feel longing
because I know I couldn't be with someone like you
I know I wouldn't do it-
not with those drugs in your system,
but oh, tall skinny boy who's not even my style,
I didn't know I wanted you like that.
I didn't know I wanted you.
I didn't know.

Unless I'm crying,
I never spend more than 10 minutes on a poem.
Even then, 10 minutes is quite rare.
I wonder why I'm not a great poet
but that lies simply within my time.
I could write philosophy
and deep words that resonate
and be like the poets I admire,
but you see they all spend time on their poems.
They think it through and have something to say.
I just write,
blindly, quickly, pointlessly.
my poems are simple
and dull,
quick rantings of a messy teenager
with no conviction
or strength
or beliefs
or heart-
just quick words written in a minute
that mean absolutely nothing.

I often wonder what I could do,
should I spend time on a poem,
but I've got no conviction
no dedication
no patience
so I write poems in a minute-
I paint words and frame them
before they've begun to dry
so they drip down across the canvas
and make a mess of themselves
and get jumbled
and end up useless and ugly and dull.

But I keep doing it.

He writes it in cards,
one every year,
he asks for my forgiveness,
and to hold me again.
He asks me
whatever happened to my dear sweet girl?
"You put your hands on her," is all I can say.
Why must you be so cruel?
"I'm nothing compared to you,"
Please forgive me
"I'm too empty inside. I don't want to."
Lets be a family again
"Never."
Please
"*******"
Let me be a father again
"I hope you burn."
Wherever did my dear sweet girl go?
"You smashed her head into a wall, she forgot the innocence but remembered the pain."

wherever did she go?
wherever did she go?
she wore sunny dresses
and never stopped smiling.
she liked to laugh
and dance in the sun,
she liked to be alive
she liked to breath.

wherever did she go?
wherever did she go?
her smiles are fake
her laugh constricted
she sleeps in the rain
she hates to exist
she cannot breath.

wherever did his sweet little girl go?
her corpse is somewhere,
maybe in those sheets
face hidden by that pillow,
her soul a ghost
that wanders tall gardens.

wherever did his sweet little girl go?
wherever did she go?
wherever did she go?

little baker is it true,
your payment is due
and there's no escape,
nothing to conceal your shape

little baker is it true,
your body is cold and blue,
did you lose your head
restless in bed
you thought you could beat this
each hit gives you bliss

little baker what have you done
now you've gone and lost your son
your health sadly dwindles
because of your swindels-
they'll come quite soon
you're already doomed.

Little Baker why couldn't you keep
no money to pay, your soul they shall reap

Little Baker you've lost it all
seemingly in a never ending fall

Little Baker you thought your addiction would heal
but  you knew deep down, your life it would steal.

Little Baker you gave up on life
for the same addiction that took your wife
and you were much too scared of the knife
and couldn't handle the strife
so you did as she did and dug a hole,
Little Baker it's time to pay the toll.

I'm not a poet.
I'm a lost suicidal worthless teen
desperately grasping at light words
trying to make sense of this world
desperate to find meaning
begging for a connection
drowning in my silly hopes
that the words I write have an impact
and mean something
and can somehow help me.

I'm not a poet.
I'm just a lame useless twisted pathetic scared drowning kid grasping at any old thing that floats.

Making something
from nothing,
is harder than it seems.

We all have our place in this world,
a talent unique to each,
a calling,
a purpose,
a reason to breath...
so maybe that's why my lungs hurt.
they struggle each intake
and nearly give up on the out.

Drums beat slow in the distance,
and so many walk to the beat-
but my uncoordinated feet stumble soddenly.
My fingers are long,
but fumble too quick to play music,
so I cannot create my own beat.

We all reside at the bottom of a pit,
black and coarse,
with the light of the world atop,
gathering at the edges, we start to climb,
but I'm too weak and cannot get very far.
I'm left behind by the others
strong enough to climb to the top,
and no matter how hard I work,
my arms remain weak,
so I sit at the bottom
watching the other weak
gain the strength to climb the walls.

The beautiful,
the bold,
the brave,
the blind,
the clever,
the artistic,
the talented,
the determined,
the kind,
the old,
all kinds of people
in all kinds of color
and sizes
find their own way,
yet mine remains imponderable.

I drag my feet to the sound of silence.
I push through the next breath.
my weak arms barely holding on.

I'm nothing
that simply can't become something.

I've been eating all day
yet my body still tells me that I haven't had enough
and that I must eat long after my stomach is painfully full,
long after the taste is bitter,
long after I'm disgusted with myself
and I've forced it all out.

Keep eating
go on
do it
keep eating,
it's all my mind ever says
it's all it has ever said.

what's wrong with me?
why can't I stop it
and plug my ears
and not listen?
why am I so disgusting?

Maybe I'm hoping to eat myself to death,
but in the mean time,
I'm nasty and miserable.
I'm revolting
but I can't stop.
I can't stop.

You taught me that everyone that wasn't a christian was going to hell.
You taught me that we were the prime example of a good christian family, even though I had bruises on my skin.
You taught me that girls should wear makeup and do their hair and wear pretty dresses, and are good for nothing except being a housewife,
you taught me that my talents should be used only enough to get money so I can live in a big house with kids and be a good wife.
You taught me that homosexuals should be strung up and gutted for being sick and diseased sinners.
You taught me that boys who don't dress like men are homosexual ***** nasty sinners.
You taught me that I wasn't good for anything
You told me that you wished you could raise me all over again, so maybe I wouldn't be such a disappointing sinner.
You told me I couldn't play with boy toys, because that's a sin,
You told me I could only wear girl colors.
You told me to only read books about good girls who do good things and not books on adventure and crime.
You told me I was ugly.
You told me I was fat.
You told me I could be somebody someday, but it wouldn't be so because I was ugly and fat and stupid and good for nothing, so I better stop dreaming.
You called me a liar when I said my father hit me.
Even when you pulled him off me as I breathed what would have been my last breath.
You didn't take me to the doctor when I laid in my room screaming in pain for an unknown reason,
You called me a ***** and a ****
and that my friends are disgusting.
You claimed I had no free will and that everything I did, was me just trying to be like all my nasty sinning homosexual friends.
You said all I did on the computer is watch ****. I was a kid.
You said my pains and sorrows and feelings and thoughts and ambitions were me just being dramatic.
You never called the police
or divorced him sooner,
you just got another job and left me alone with him all day.
You called me a liar no matter what I said.
You blamed me for your woes and your weight.
You prayed and begged and cried in front of me,
trying to understand where you went wrong and why I was such a sinner. I was a kid.
You didn't raise me.
When I twisted my ankle on a field trip, it was another parent who iced my ankle.
You didn't pick me up from the school play at 10pm,
I waited and waited- it was another parent who came back to check on me, and took me home.
When I woke up with ****** knuckles and ****** walls, you didn't care that I had been punching the walls in my sleep you didn't do anything to help.
I ran away from home three times and each it was my sister who came to get me, never you.
When I fell through a window and that piece of glass lay pointing at my heart, for I was too light to have my body push down through it, I wasn't relieved, I was disappointed. You didn't stitch me up, my brother is the one who cleaned my cuts and bandaged me up and down.
You didn't help me, it was my sister who taught me how to push our dresser in front of the door when he was on a drunken rampage with a baseball bat, so it would buy time for us to hop through the window and down the street.
It was my sister who held me when I fell of my bed and took the skin off my nose.
It was my brother who read me stories of a brilliant boy named Artemis Fowl who went on adventures.
It was my sister who screamed for him to stop when I played too loud and he smashed my head against the wall.
It was my sister who taught me how to cook and clean
and bought THE LABYRINTH so that I could fall in love with David Bowie and learn to be a girl who didn't need anyone to save her.  
It was my brother who lent me his clothes when he grew so I could get out of those nasty pink dresses with lace that covered every inch of me.
Every time I spoke you said I was a liar and that I should sit down and shut up.
You badgered me for being rude when I didn't speak in public or with family and when I do you laugh and shush me, letting the other people know that I like to exaggerate, I like attention.
and then you scream at me for being rude and that I should sit down and shut up sit down and shut up and that's what I did.

From birth, you said I shouldn't exist and that I was heartless and nothing and cold and dead inside. You blamed me for the world and you still do.

This all happened before I was 8 years old.

When you went to Italy last summer, you went without a word and left me with no food or money. It was another family that sheltered me. It was a man I've met only twice who has become my only father figure and texts me to make sure I'm okay and picks me up and feeds me and gives me a place to stay and helps me indulge in my interests and tries to heal me and treats me like his own daughter.

This is still all you do.
You expect flowers and a card
and chocolate
and the world at your feet
because you have given me the world
and raised me
and cared for me
and loved me.
But when I do the dishes for you as a favor, I can only think about whether the knife I'm cleaning will be plunged into your heart, or mine.

For the woman who tells me I look ugly on prom night, who calls my friends sinners and curses them  tells me I'm fat and nothing and punishes me for things I've never done and won't leave me alone in the doctor's office so that she can "Correct" everything I have to say so that I can't get anxiety or depression or anger medication or a thorough checkup on why my body hurts everyday. To the woman who cries and screams to this **** day that she doesn't understand why I'm a disgusting monster, how she doesn't understand how I turned into a freak. To the woman who openly despises every inch of me that tries so hard to be happy and love everyone and everything,
Happy mother's day.

Sometimes,
in the night,
I wake up crying from a dream.
A dream that was good,
so incredibly good.

The kind of dream
where I'm invited to do things
and let in on jokes
and lives
and thoughts
and everyday things,
even the simplest...

the kind of dream
in which I can speak freely,
and I'm afraid of nothing.
The kind of dream
where I'm a normal person,
and people want me.

But then I wake up from the tears
because even in sleep,
even when I try to hide in dreams
I still know I'll never be like that.
I'll never speak freely,
be brave
be normal
be liked.

be wanted.

I'll never be someone people will want
and remember
and cherish,

I'll only ever be me.
and me isn't worth existing.

Truth is,
I suppose I really would like to be one of those girls
who frollicks in the sun in white dresses
and ballet slipper pink cardigans.

But I can't.
Something inside me fears it,
I don't feel... safe in those colors.
They don't fit me.
I'd like to look like Kalel from Wonderland Wardrobe,
but she's like every other girl,
tiny and naturally cute.
I'm too big to wear those clothes.
I have a big head and big arms
and a long torso
and strong horse legs.

I'd like to be a lady,
cute and sweet,
but I was born unfeminite.
I was born ugly.
A goblin amongst humans.

I'd like to wear my hair like that
and flaunt just like all of them,
but I could never do that,
for I was not made like that.
I wasn't made
for lace and ribbons
I was made for leather and chains
even better, a box,
a cardboard box suits me best
as it'd hide all my features
and keep my hidden from the world.

Phantom of the opera,
I do love the opera,
covering my pig face in a mask
and stumpy body in a black shroud.
I'm doomed to be like this.

I wanted to be like the other girls so bad
but I couldn't
and I started to hate it,
hate those colors
and stupid flowers
and ribbons
and makeup-
because they didn't look good on me,
made me look like a fool.

And now I'm trapped in
black, black,
black,
black
and more black
only ever black
black and bulky
because my body isn't like theirs
and my head is big
and like that of a pig,
so I'm stuck hiding
knowing I'll never be able to wear
white dresses
or those Ballet Slipper Pink cardigans.

I should work out
or do laundry
or eat dinner
or do homework
or be productive
and do things that need to be done.

but I sort of just want to curl up in a ball,
cry and sleep.

I do that every night though...
but then again,
I like a set routine.

"Why don't you come inside, Fish?
or you could just stay out here,
because I know you like to be alone"

That hit like daggers in my heart.
Especially coming from him,
I look up to him so much,
I shouldn't but I do.
He means well, I think,
it was more of a joke, sort of,
he wasn't being serious,
but the way he said it hurt.

Sure I lingered a moment in the rain
waiting for the rest of the people to enter the lobby
and I'd go last but-
I don't know.
it hurt.
him saying that.
that people think that.

No, Rob,
I don't like to be alone,
but being alone is easier
and the world is very scary
and I'm not very brave
so everyone thinks I like to be alone
but I don't.
I really don't.

It's too hard for me to speak
I don't know why, it just is.
It's too hard for me to step forward
and be like everyone else
I try so hard
but it's so terrifying.



the feeling of loneliness chills my insides
and makes me cold and still.
think what you like of me,
but please,
especially not you,
don't think I like to be alone.
because I don't.

They tell me it's simple,
really not that hard to do,
Even if you don't believe it,
try to,
say and pretend you do and it'll help.

so I try.
I try my best.
but the words sting my tongue,
they make my heart sink
and a pit bubble in my stomach.
Sometimes they make me cry,
because I try so hard
to believe the words I'm saying
I'm trying so hard to make them true
but I can't,
because I know those words are lies.

"Look in the mirror
and tell yourself you're beautiful,
that you're worth something."
But I can't.
Because it's too big of a lie.

I'm doing great!
OH, JUST DANDY
fantastic!
fine
okay, you?
pretty good
well, and you?

maybe if I keep lying to people
when they ask me how I am,
maybe eventually my answer will be true.

She believes she is rare,
she's, one of a kind,
she believes she is special
and, she believes she's the greatest of her time.

She remembers long ago,
these fantasies raged strong.
No matter the trials she faced-
she'd, spread her wings long.

Her fiery eyes would look into theirs
and, claim her own name,
with ideas of future fame-
but,
they hunted her down.
Sharpened their swords
and readied their arrows,
someone like her simply couldn't be.

She thought she could handle anything,
that she was strong enough to stand alone,
so she spread her wings
and let the fire burn deep in her throat
knowing her scales would capture the bruises.

But they advanced,
intent on killing,
Swords raised high
and arrows raining down,
her fire wasn't as hot as she thought.
She ran,
as the arrows penetrated the scales.

Finally she had enough,
she turned and stood tall
leaving her heart exposed.
A cruel sword plunged forth,
deep inside her heart.
she fell to the ground
as they cheered.

She dragged herself away
and hid in a cave.

The Dragon inside her died that day.
She was left weak and fearful
and human.
No longer special
but terribly ordinary
and broken and alone,
too weak to pull the sword from her body.

She remained alive,
and would continue to do so,
hiding away in the lonely cave forevermore,
with a sword in her heart,
and a trail of Dragon's blood behind her.

Tug at me
with your yellow teeth
stained by cigarettes and alcohol.

Assess me with dilated eyes.

Show me a gross kind of love,

the kind of love I'll understand.

I don't know how not to be alone.

my email is full of weight loss programs
and diet pills
and purging tips
and suggested videos on how to be pretty.

I'm not sure if any of this is helping.

Stumbling into the yard,
still blinded by electric light.
I look to the sky,
as so many heroes I've read of  have done,
and try to understand what I'm supposed to see.

I see a set of stars,
bright,
they're pretty,
but that's all I can think of to say.

My neck hurts as I crane to look at the sky,
but I persist.
What am I supposed to be seeing?
this mass universe beyond our atmosphere,
I see nothing but a few stars
that all look like they're Orion's Belt.

The wind rustles,
I feel like it's telling me something,
but what?

A few more stars appear,
I didn't notice them.
more and more and more
as my eyes come to an understanding with the night
and I see it.
The sky is bursting with those lights-
but I still wonder what to think.

Should I feel inspired?
motivated?
awed?
puny?
insignificant ?
powerful?

what is it so many great minds
have seen in the sky
that eludes itself from me?

I never think too deeply about anything,
couldn't, even if I tried.
So I just stand with an aching neck
acknowledging their beauty.

I search and search the sky,
neck becoming stiff,
I see small stars lightly throbbing,
and can only think of how this light
is proof of the stars death.
and then I see it,
a shooting star.
It hits me, it hits me all at once.
My first shooting star.
Something about it,
so bold
and swift
and striking,
there for a moment
and gone before I can blink.

Something about it lifted a weight.
I've always wanted to see one,
and now I have
and I felt something.
I'm not sure what,
but it was definitely something.

Feeling satisfied I go back into my room
and blind myself with yellow and blue light.
I have no idea what I got out of staring into the sky for thirty minutes,
I felt something but I know not what.
I only know that I feel like it helped me in a way,
like the sky had talked to my soul,
like I had been keeping my soul caged up like a bird
when it wanted to fly,
it wanted to say hello to the sky.
I'm not sure how looking to the stars that night helped me,
it just did.

I'm going to look at the stars more often,
as much as I can.
Maybe someday I'll find what so many others have found.
Whether it only ever lets my soul fly
or grants me so much more,
I think we should all look to the sky more often.
In times of joy, or sadness, or tragedy,
look to the sky, day or night,
breath it in
and let your soul fly,
for you might find something more.

I wander through my own carcass
putting duct tape on every corner,
caution signs on the slippery bits,
and stitching every opening,
even those that should remain open.

I can't tell what's whole
or what's shattered
or what's cracked,
I have no idea what's broken inside me,
so I'm trying to fix everything,

She breathes fire
from the depths of her soul,
She shouts victory
from lungs black as coal,
Her nostrils flare
and her eyes, a chilling stare.
She breaths fire,
for all those who admire.

She cracks her wings
and snaps her tail
to the awe of kings
always without fail.

her stomach rumbles
low and deep
making theirs
humble and meak.

Her heart burns like embers
her bones like sturdy trees,
a name no one remembers
that once made armies flee

Fire comes out like a spout
from her mouth
from her throat
from her heart and soul,
fire comes out
and without a doubt
fire will take its toll.

She breathes in smoke,
and kindles the flame,
body dragging low
head to the ground
but eyes to the sky,

She breathes fire to the earth,
and lets the ashes fall to heaven.

-and suddenly,
I stopped caring.
Prepare to read more of my teen angst.

The only way to really know me,
is to read my poetry.
I've only ever shown my poetry to the internet,
making sure nobody knew who I was,
until I met a boy who read my poetry,
and loved it
and helped me with my problems
and turns out I knew him in reality.
He's a ******* now but that doesn't matter.

I then let someone else see it,
someone I saw in person daily,
that was a big step as I wasn't entirely trusting but-
I think my trust, my faith has been betrayed
As then someone else I knew followed me,
and then someone else,
and then someone else.

No, no,
all these poems I have saved as drafts
because I'm scared-
because I see them in reality
because it's all too much for me.
So it can't go on.

Every now and then,
I'll post a poem or two,
but nothing too incriminating.
But other than that,
this is my farewell.
It hurts because there are poems on here I really do like
but I let one person see my account
and from there too many people
followed me,
too many people who know my name
and face.
that's unacceptable,
I've never wanted that.
They can't know my story,
I don't trust people like that,
people who can touch my skin.

So that's it,
Goodbye Fish and all the poems I wrote here,
goodbye your kind words and likes and follows.
Thank you for taking the time to read my words,
all you lovely strangers.

Farewell, Hello Poetry.

I wonder if she knows,
that when she speaks
with a voice
low and smooth,
I become ashamed of my own.

I wonder if she knows
I watch her sometimes
and envy each breath.
I admire everything about her...
her poetry is simple but stunning
her laugh infectious
her smile is kind
and her eyes are bright.

I heard about her,
years before,
and had a picture in my mind.
I know her now
and the picture has not changed
if only to make it better.

I envy her confidence
I admire her every movement.
If she were famous I'd own all her movies
and do what I do now,
watch and learn
and try to be as great as she.
Her talent is unwasted
as all who know her love her.
How is it she's so grand?

The boys, they look,
they see,
they know she is the most beautiful girl in the room
they know they want her
they know,
as I know,
that she's worth it.
that she deserves it.
that she should be happy.

I wonder if she knows,
this poem is about her.
I wonder if she knows
I wish I could be even an inch similar to her.
It's not cruel envy and jealousy I hold for her,
but complete admiration for the way she carries herself.
She speaks her mind
and shows emotion
clever and funny,
she walks with regality
and is oh so gorgeous.

How is it she seems so perfect?
So poised and gentle and witty-
in not the most poetic terms
I basically think she's really cool,
and wish I could carry myself
in the profound,
glamourous,
respectable,
admirable way in which she does.

How is it she'd ever care to be my friend?
Oh the way she walks,
the way she speaks,
the way the other girls envy
the way the boys look
the way the teachers admire,
she's unafraid to announce her sorrows and fears,
she enters a room with a fierce glamour
and makes her presence known,
as, for her, it should be.

Oh, she is glorious.

and I admire her so.

I'll play a song for you,
you who told me I was strong
when the bruises raged on.

I'll write you a melody,
for you who was the armor against their words
and happily sat in the sinking ship alongside me.

you who turned your back on the world
because nobody understood us, like us.
You who knew every inch of me
and I of you.
You who knew when I was lying
when I hadn't eaten-
when my stitches had come undone
in the middle of the night
there you were,
needle and thread in hand,
without warning,
simply because you just, knew.

This song is for you,

For the years you kept me company,
for the looks you gave
for the undying trust
from keeping the knife from shedding my wrist
for letting me know it's okay to break the rules
to know there is no shame in who I am
for letting me know day after day
that I'm stronger than any,
and I'm kind,
and I'm worth it,
and awesome,
and... that I shouldn't care what people think because,
because I'm all I need,
and
you'll always be here.

But you're not here.

So, I guess despite the unsewn stitches
and long nights
and month where I convinced myself I hated you...
I guess it's true that I'm all I need.

I've left behind who I was,
our names no longer rhyme,
you found someone else to rhyme with.
But it's okay because I'm ignoring
the pit in my stomach,
the void in my heart,
the voice I once used so often,
I'm ignoring it all because-
I'm all I need.

so indeed,
this song is for you.
You who told me,
from the start,
I can do this alone.
You,
who is more like an imgainary friend
I see ghost from place to place
every now and then...

This tune is for you.

I'm not paying attention,
I glance around the room, distracted.
My eyes glaze over to him-
**** ****
he looks right at me
oh god- he probably thinks I was staring at him-
he's probably creeped out
oh god no
please don't hate me-
oh crap I looked at him again.
ugh.
great. now he thinks I'm creepy.

The morning is far away
but it will be bitter sweet.
It's a week away
but the emptiness is overflowing.

Elite memories
I wish were vague
pound into my heart.

Six years.
Six.

For each of those years
this date was special,
it was eagerly awaited
and planned
and performed-
a date in which
I would spend all extra money
and countless hours
plotting,
awaiting the chance to please
and dazzle.

For six years this date was special.
Now... so quickly... it's nothing.

I know what she'll be doing
I know what she'll be eating
I know what kind of cake she'll get...
what she'll think about
talk about
laugh about
joke about
be confused about
everything...
I...
I know it all...


For six years April 16th
was the most important day of the year,
the day my best friend would age
just 19 days earlier than I.

For six years April 16th
was my devotion to her.

but now...
now it's nothing.

It's a week away but still
my body goes weak with the memories.

I look at her new best friend;
just a prettier me,
it's not like we fought
or we did anything wrong-
our world just stopped.
and split in two.

I know what she'll be doing on April 16th.
I'll be alone in my house,
facts of her penetrating my brain-
for I know all there ever is to know-
all the stories she's ever had to tell-
all her wants
hopes
dreams
fears-

Will she think of me?

For the first time in six years,
she will have a birthday
without me.
Six years without being separated..
six years.
It's like those years never existed.

I fear next week
like no other.
I'll sit in my room-
unable to even wish her a facebook happy birthday,
I can only sit and wish her happiness.
So here it goes,
to the only girl who knew everything about me,
and I her,
to the girl I'd give the world for,
to the girl who is but a ghost of my memories
and I of hers,

Happy Birthday, Tiffany Amber.

I'd like to drink true
and bold
and fearless
and honest,

instead they tell me to bottle it up.

I'd like to breath easy
sleep steady,
smile
drink more
and sigh at a sight-

but instead I'm just foolish.

I've been told it is wrong since forever,
and have tried my hardest to drink
only the freshest wine-
like all the other people my age do,
but I cannot.
It results only in my lying,
Faking emotions I could never have,
pretending to like the pure taste.

I've never seen a problem with it,
but
Not only do they say it is wrong-
it is illegal.
It hurts my soul, for now,
but soon, just a year, I'll be free to love and drink
aged wine the same as I do now,
only with less scrutiny.

I'll be free to be held in public with few judging eyes,
I'll drink unto it
and it will drink into me.
and the brief
secretive moments of passion
that have always stayed hidden that people say is wrong
can end-
and cautiously enter where the sun's rays pour.

I have my eye on a fine bottle of wine,
it gets better with age,
they tell me I shouldn't,
taking a drink would be wrong,
I've only had sips-
but soon
so soon,
I'll have a glass.