You're here if I need you,

but not the way

that I need you

livin in a big big house
alone all the time
no lights
sittin in the dark
electric light
reflecting in my dead eyes
watchin Dexter claim his next victim
falling in love
with ugly scary monsters
because I understand them
and they make me feel safe
and nobody else understands that
they're the only thing that makes me feel okay
nasty nasty
cruel things
storylines so sad
heroes so broken
but the horrificality of it
makes me sing
ringin in my ears
playin on my fears
shivers up my spine
this is how I like to spend my time

The world seemed quiet.
The teacher's eyes are sullen.
and the kids...
we're all so polite,
all so gentle
each breath filled with a cautious respect...
There's an air of despair,
as we mourn
one whom we loved.

I admire your each step,
I admire the mystery around you,
I admire each syllable of every poignant word you press to paper
and the words you do not.
I admire the love you proclaim to have for her,
and if I knew her,
I should think I'd admire her too.

I don't know you
nor shall I ever,
but I can still watch you walk the school halls
and wonder what makes you tick,
what your family does and doesn't do,
what you were like as a child
how you became like this
and how you are able to enchant the world with your writing-
making me eternally frustrated with my own-
ranking my words by whether or not you
like or comment or repost them-
which you don't,
thus I feel a failure.

You have a purpose with your words,
something to say
and you say it so strong
and with such beauty
and heartache
I crave the next time you post-
and I'll evermore continue to wonder
how you became so mighty.

Do you work on your poetry or is it natural?
is it because you read so much?
is it because you don't waste countless hours on the computer
or watch TV?
How did you become you
which is so admirable
and mysterious
and deep
and talented
and unique?

I know I don't have a right to ask these questions
and with what little I know about you
I certainly don't have the right to admire you
and I don't deserve to know your life story,
but I'd like to know anyways.

Jade sauna
just over body temperature
to increase metabolism
smooth blood flow
and sweat out toxins
my hair is up
there are no lines on my pale smooth face
I'm happy and peaceful
I look so serene
and so skinny
"'scuse me you speak Russian?"
it's one of the cute foreigners
I've had my eye on
flirtations ensued
and it was nice
to be looked at
with fascination
with cute wonder
getting complimented
through broken english
as he ran his hands through his hair
smiling abashedly
trying to make sense of my words
as I did the same for his--
we were up all night talking
"no halloween in Russia,
but if had, you be Queen"
he knew nothing of me
just this peaceful calm side
that smiled and giggled
and carried a conversation
like a feather on the wind
he saw a girl he could smile at
and say
"you are very beautiful"
"you have lovely smile"
I'll never see him again in my life
but what a wonderful memory to have of someone
nothing but kind words
and laughter
and peace
serenity
a few of the things
I treasure most,
yes,
what a lovely memory
of Annex the smiling Russian boy
who drank tea with me
at the Jeju Spa
until the sun rose
and the lights came back on.

I'll just have a taste
just have one
two
three
four
sticky mess
all over my hands
why couldn't I stop
I don't remember doing this
frosting drying up my mouth
only solaced by further sugar
sticky mess
all over my hands
I can't wash it off
I can't get it off
it's engraved there
sticky mess
all over my hands
tormenting me
making me sick
sticky mess
all over my hands
purge it out
get it out
shower drowning out the sound
sticky mess
all over my hands


I'm disgusting

He is the sun
bringing life
and laughter
and warmth
he is the moon
that lights
my black world
and pulls in
the cooling tides

Feel like dyin'
feel like cryin'
screaming as the darkness
closes in.
holding everything in,
shredding the pain with each layer of skin-
tormented by the shadows
that conglomerate elsewhere.

For underneath this shrill menagerie,
my heart beats
still and cold.

I don't have a lot of money,
no real talents to trade
I'm left with nothing but the extreme
if I want to achieve my dream
I'd sell my soul
honey
strip down
give my body
sell all my possessions
every last penny
if you'd just bring me a doctor
a doctor who can fix me
who's filthy enough-
no-
kind enough
to accept my extreme,
put me under the knife
slice away
until my ugly is a dream,
because it's all I've ever wanted
all I've ever craved,
doctor
doctor,
make me beautiful.

I want an ugly boy
so rough and tuff
don't care bout anythin but me
I want an ugly boy
he'll act as crazy as can be
crazy in love with me
maybe he zef
so I can be blessed
anything I need
he got it
anything I want
he got it
I want an ugly boy
my pitbull
my protector
I don't need to tame him
I like him how he is
he like me how I is
he likes that I am his
he don't need me to change
perfect to the letter
but I change anyway
for the better
I won't have to spend my nights so cold
in fear of growing old
he'll drink my tears
for they're tears of joy
all I really want
is an ugly boy

It feels like tar on my tongue,
My mouth is dry and my throat burns-
Horrifying twists as my stomach churns.
Those words still come easy,
But my voicebox is chained and has to force them out.
Why do I let them out?
Those simple words will stay with me,
Floating about and polluting all I see
The memory of them rest easy,
Reminding me how bad I am.
I used to enjoy it,
Felt them to be necessary,
Natural,
Powerful,
And expressive.
But now their taste is bitter,
They are sickening and distasteful.
They offend me.
They whip at my ears and stab at my heart.
They are degrading.
I’ll sound like a hypocrite
I’ll sound entirely fake.
They are only words
But oh how they are foul.
I enjoy the taste of tar,
As it makes me unhappy to speak them.
I enjoy how it peels my skin,
As I do not want to be near them.
I adore how it destroys me,
Because it is that
Which builds me up.

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.

First day of school.
I sit down in class
and my eyes meet his.
He gives a funny head tilt and smile.
and that has been the extent of our communication.
I've had a crush on him since.
not exactly, a romantic wanting crush,
a strange crush.
I'm not sure I'd ever date him,
or that I want him to like me,
I just like him,
if that makes sense.
I like the way he looks,
I think he's funny and odd...
but not many people like him.
in fact most people hate him.
he's annoying and weird
and dumb
and my close friends slander him-
and it makes me feel ashamed for liking him.
It's a year now, I still like him
and find him interesting
but why do I feel ashamed?
I don't see what the others see,
I don't see why he's so hated.
I'm not expecting him to ever like me back
or even acknowledge me,
I just like him and that's that,
and I don't understand why everyone else hates him
and why it makes me feel bad for liking him.
The way they talk about him
and give each other looks
when he speaks in class,
it makes me dare not breath of a word of my liking of him,
makes me feel bad for feeling like this.
I shouldn't feel ashamed for liking that tall skinny boy.
I do.
But I shouldn't.

you're so **** gorgeous
and I'm so **** not
you're the envy of the nature
which you gratuitously stomp on.
ugly girls have ugly hearts
and my ugly heart
doesn't want you around
I don't need this competition.
I don't need to feel this bad.
You're drop dead gorgeous
but I wish you'd just drop dead.

I'm an ugly person
for the way that I think.
The things I say under my breath.
Wrapped in grubby chains of envy
at all who walk past.
and I do mean all.
I'm angry because I'm not as good
as everyone else,
not as pretty.
I'm angry because beauty is granted to everyone
and those with disabilities.
I often think this girl is pretty,
but the only reason she has a modeling contract
and has this fame
is because she lost an arm
was bullied
showed her insulin pump in her photo
has a disease
or is deformed.
girls who look worse than me
praised like Gods for their beauty
because they have something wrong with them.
I'm jealous of that.
I fantasize often about my grand sad story,
jumping in front of a bullet, attacked,
cancer, loss of limb etc etc
I want their awful story
just so people will like me
and think I'm pretty.

It's disgusting.
Their life is hard
and they are brave
but I think it's unfair
and I'm still jealous.
They get praise and treated like royalty
because they're sick.
beautiful and sick is beautiful.
ugly and sick is beautiful.
beautiful and normal is beautiful.
ugly and normal is nothing.
ugly is ugly.
and even as I recognize my disgusting thoughts,
they're still there.
brooding and boiling
in a *** of green slimy jealousy,
jealous because they're lucky
and blessed and fortunate.
I'm ugly because I'm jealous.

When I wear makeup
I feel unstoppable
courageous
beautiful.
so beautiful.

but I don't mean regular makeup,
mascara lipstick eyeliner blush etc,
I mean the kind that takes hours to apply,
transforming myself into hit characters
ghastly ghouls
alien creatures
minotaurs
ziggy stardust
I mean painting myself
with all the theatricality I can afford.

I feel like I can breath when I wear my makeup,
I feel okay and calm and like nothing can touch me
above all else I feel safe.
so safe
with that paint,
everybody's looking at the makeup
instead of me,
they admire and compliment the mask I've crafted
and it makes me happy to know
they can't see my plain pale face underneath,
the outrageous conception
has formed a shield
allowing me to step out in public
without being afraid to exist.

when I wear my makeup
I'm allowed to be whomever I please
and mingle-talk freely with all I want,
my makeup lets me be like everyone else.

The only downside is that not every week is spirit week,
my gentle skin is too irritated by even the most
hyper-allergenic makeup and acne protrudes
and at the end of it all I still have to wash it off,
watch my happy colors go down the sink drain,
the mask doesn't last forever,
and I'm left standing there the next day,
without my makeup
without my shield
and I feel so naked,
I feel incomplete and scared.

I wish every week was spirit week,
and that my skin was tough,
so that I could paint my face every day
              so I wouldn't have to be afraid.

Eyes frantically searching the room,
symphony of sniffles,
shoulders hunched,
muscles flexed
as thin hands clutch thin arms;
keep it together man,
just a few hours left.

So I will tell you this.
My body is breaking.
I spend my nights in agony,
screaming,
bones writhing.
But I will tell you it's dedication.
I'll look at your past-
what you thought was a shining future-
I see you look at me like a stranger
A monster
A product of standards
Skinny-
Athletic-
Talented-
Forced.
But I will tell you it's dedication,
something required,
Something you've never had.
I'm sick
I'm suffering
But Lord
I have dedication,
Dedication is all it Takes-
The Will
The Need
To have it.
My frail bones are shattering
but dedication is all I need
Dedication is the sick habit
that has overtaken my body
Dedication.
Dedication-
to this life
Dedication to this illness
To create something...
Something... of myself.

There is a line
between
pain and
pleasure.
But when that line blurs-
When the pleasure overthrows
your inhibitions
and the pain numbs your body,
When pain becomes pleasure
and pleasure becomes pain,
how do you know when to stop.

I glorify it.
I crave the taste
of the sickness.
of the disease rippling across my skin,
boiling in my veins
and flowing through my blood.

Is it Healthy?
I love you,
I love it,
but is it healthy
To walk the streets at night
in constant fear
not only of what lurks in the shadows
but of you too.

Anorexic bodies
falling all around us.
Mine included.
Skinnier by the day,
yellow nails chipping and peeling,
grinding of the teeth
to procure a never ending headache.

Pale skin;
cold to the touch
from lack of circulation.
Weak in your arms
an intoxicated mind
and a heart struck through with daggers.

Blasting screams
and beats
to block out the world
and create a throbbing in our heads.
Your freak show;
My guilty little pleasure.

So sick
So satanic
So tenebrific
So twisted
so disturbed
so disgusting
so beautiful
so broken.

cradled by poison,
hold me in your arms,
a monster in the shadows
with thanatognomonic eyes.

With my thanatophobia
You manage to keep me alive.

You do it to feel the pain,
as a confirmation that you're still alive,
But I do it to feel nothing,
to feel all this pain
all these repressed emotions
disappear.

Overall we do it to stay alive,
and shred away
our pitiful sorrows
one by one,
piece by piece.
For inch by inch
we come closer
to meeting the same
fate
of our cold,
useless,
easily forgotten bodies
lying on a metal slab.
Soon to be greeted
by the maltreated Earth.

Tight skin
Pulled thin
From the constant beating of the drum.
My chest shakes and throbs
As the beating reverberates throughout,
Beat it lightly,
Tap it soft,
Nothing but a memory when alone.
A crowd grows near,
Full of expectations
I am full of fear.
The pace quickens,
The beating grows louder:
Louder till’ my head begins to spin
Harder till my body shivers with each breath I take
With a fragile fear of being shattered.
I’m waiting for someone to loosen these binds
If someone like that exists,
For even those I love dearest
Gather in a circle and pull tighter.
It will pull tighter until it rips open and I shatter
With little hope of being put back together.
Each day, every moment
My body is overrun
With the beating of the drum
And it will continue to beat fast
Until I am alone.

Tales marketed at the edge of all existence,
formulated by mass hysteria
and poverty
spit from the grinded ideals of our fathers
but our fathers were twisted and aged-
but our mothers,
our mothers
whom were convicted as the criminally insane
and held at a lower standard
knew the future,
they knew we would crumble,
that we must crumble.
For it has been predicted since ancient times
that mankind would fall
but the fall was blamed on Gods
and those of a higher power
because they could not believe
that man would wound himself,
slowly poison himself until he drags
his black and blue skin across the lands
and eats all he sees,
gorging himself till he bursts
and drowns our cities in his impurities.
Funny,
built like monkeys we are fools,
but more to the liking of our pink skin
we are pigs at heart

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 condemn the ignorant.
I persecute and judge
The hapless swagsters
With their pants dragging across the pavement.
Their style,
their style I can judge.
Their ignorance, I have no right.
I took a look at the world.
Wrenching my heart.
Making my head fuzzy
With eyes aching from what they have seen.
My ears throb with the pitched wringing
Of constant technology
And controlled ignorance.
Most of all it is my legs.
My legs move awkwardly
As they struggle to support my weight.
They struggle to keep me standing against the gravity
Of a world that does not seem worth walking through.
Jumbled sentences,
no political views,
no future in mind,
hatred of any and all religion.
Yet they are so open.
So open and accepting to those
Which religion,
Politics
And the future have so swiftly rejected.
I look at the lies
And personal gain
Of politics.
It is disgusting.
I look at the future
And see nothing but horror
And the downfall of society.
I look at religion
And am ashamed to be called a Christian.
The world has become ignorant.
It is the blind leading the blind
As those with money and power
Do all in their ability to control everyone else.
I see the beauty of religious faith
Turned into a monstrous topic
People like to avoid
So they don’t have to think
Of the revolting people
Who are full of sin,
Parading around, destroying others
In the name of the Lord.
I look around and it hurts.
I look around and I collapse to the ground.
My legs have spent so long supporting me,
As if walking would bring me somewhere
Where we are literate and confident.
But as I look around and see the horror
And the misshapen beings swaying to and fro
As they themselves begin to realize that they, too
Want to sit down and wallow in their garbage.
Nothing but Fish in an unkempt tank,
Swimming in our own, endless s**t.
I begin to envy those I condemn.
Those who I purse my lips, raise an eyebrow and scoff at.
Those who I dismiss so easily in their ignorance,
For not seeing the world as it is.
Until I realize that I am not so smart.
Until I realize that their ignorance is the greatest genius of all.
Ignorance, as they say, is bliss.
Bliss I could only lie at the feet and kiss
In envy and want as I lose hope
In that I am just as ignorant as the rest.
I try to forget what I have seen,
What I have heard,
And how hard my legs have worked.
But I lay down and kiss.
I accept the bliss that comes with not knowing.
I forget the lies,
Manipulation
And cruelty of the world,
And even if it’s just for a little bit,
I bathe in the glory of ignorance.

she wakes early to plot the day
makes the bed where he once laid
she works out to stay trim
curls her hair so she's proper and prim
she cleans the living room
the kitchen
the bedroom
the bath
the halls
the windows
the tables
the floor
she washes and folds the laundry
and puts away the dishes with a clatter
overwhelmed with quandary
pretending the latter doesn't matter
only focused on having dinner ready
when he steps through the door steady
and she does it all
yes she does it all
with a frown on her mouth
and a furrow on her brow
yes she's going mad as a hatter
perfect makeup
mixing batter
what's for dinner
new lingerie
makes her look thinner
she's got to please the man
she's got to lick his hand
petrified things will fall apart
if she doesn't play her part
she's losing who she is
afraid to be a Ms.
all day long
she thinks of pleasing him
humming a caged bird's song
for she does this all desperately
desperately desperately
running from the candle *****
her love just doesn't seem enough
doing all she can
to keep this man
pretending she still has an identity
and that she's not just a mechanical thing
that she's more than just
the desperate housewife.

I didn't eat for three days
so I could be lovely
like Yolandi Visser who's above me
if I don't eat meat
will there be extra room on my seat?
for adventures- oh
I wanna live like louis
cause you're so aw
and I'm so ew
should be the other way around
but I'm bowin on the ground
you a she-ra
he-ra
no ska
hip-hop double dutch
south paw
fighting like a gang from the hood
grew up on the rough streets
of GV
oh Jeez
so tough
smoke ****
post a pic of my blunt
love to hunt
'cause I'm so cool
be jealous of me
and my shirt that say skee
****** with the fuckbois
guys,
I think I need to grow up
haha
jk
messin with the sub
tellin my mom to shut up
I smell like shtub
ugh
I'm so oppressed right now
white privelage is hard
I'm a smart teen
marred
as an ignorant delinquent
teeth clinquant-
I can be eloquent
but I'm treated like an infant
so frequent
I act like a miscreant
nobody seems to understand
I don't even think I do
get that lotion 'way from me
gotta get tanned-
uh
dya see my abbs
dya see me ***
I'm a piece of meat
rare and raw
with seasoning
dress code
don't tell me otherwise
underneath american skies
it's all about your size
supersize the food
downsize your weight
keep it down
keep it low
till gravity
brings you crashing down
in a geneva gown
close-rubbin-
gap thighs
'cause it's
mcm
wcw
tbt
to when I did fbf
anacronyms
I don't even know how to spell it
what a ****
bathroom wall vandalism
"fat *****"
haha
so gangsta
so tough
I have it so rough
middle class white kid
you've got to be kidding me
praise cthulu
giant squid.
meme
2k15
ah

A dark,
empty classroom.
Sitting here alone,
feeling no different
than when it was full.

I've never been scared like this before,
not until now,
never has someone known my secrets
Never has someone known how damaged I am.
It terrified me.
My poetry,
my true heart,
sewn together with scraps,
splayed out for strangers to see.
But that's just it,
strangers.
I'll never have to come face to face with them,
I'll never have to hide
and blatantly lie to them.
But what happens when I come face to face
with someone who knows my writing best?

I felt scared.
I was worried this past-stranger
would let something slip

The people I see daily must never know I'm hurt,
must never know
my nights of insomnia
are filled with tears,
and must never question my bitter humor.

But I was lucky,
lucky that the stranger,
like everyone else,
simply doesn't care.

I look at this empty classroom,
desks in shambles and dusty books
with plain walls,

it sends an eerie shiver up my spine
with the creeping question of
"what if?"

What if someone cared?
I can only pray
that will never happen.

She walks on egg shells
        there is no second chance
she wears a dress of broken glass
         the consequences will be dire
She's heard it all her life
          this isn't baseball- there's only one strike
Even in drama games
          one small ***** up
                  one unintentional mistake
                          the crowd goes wild
                                 SHEEEEEEEE'SSSSSS OUT OF HERE!

I look at you and I see perfection.
that kind face
and kind words.
So many people love you,
and I've fallen in love.
But perhaps, not with you.
The you I see behind your eyes.
I look and see pain
Inside those perfect,
happy eyes
I see sadness
and memories you've tried to forget.
Underneath your tan skin
I see the quick ripples
of what's underneath
I see what beats true in your heart,
I see the monster you hold within.
All your sins
and demons,
I see them all.
And I love them.

The human vocabulary is vast and complicated,

there are endless possibilities,

but there's a glitch in my system,

for no matter what sentence

is spoken to me

the AutoCorrect of my mind

only lets me hear

that I am not wanted.

This is not a poem.
This is something I must say.
When struggling with anger,
When in a war with one's self,
fighting an endless, raging ocean of emotions,
one must find peace within.
I can go through the day and not be bothered,
I can gain the upper hand in any argument,
I am peaceful, happy, and healthy.
There are reasons for this,
reasons which are often mistaken
and I must beg you not to mistake them.
Just because I meditate,
does not mean I am a buddhist,
or am in a cult.
Because I eat much fruit
and smoothies
does not mean I'm an "L.A. snob"
Because my body is in shape and in tune with itself from Yoga,
again, does not have any connection to a religion
and does not make me an "L.A. snob"
Tai Chi,
Yoga,
Juicing,
Pilates,
Meditation,
Active in politics,
ecologically aware,
philosophical readings,
does not bind me to any one thing in particular.
You judge,
you sneer,
you make your silly little assumptions
and snort when I suggest you try it.
Caring about the world around me,
Knowing my body,
how to stay healthy and how to use it,
Understanding our impact on this Earth,
is not a crime.
Adults,
you laugh in my face and tell me I am silly,
that I am ignorant and easily manipulated
simply because I am opinionated when it comes to those who run our country.

I have become a better person and the world refuses to accept it
due to how I got here.
Meditation was my first step, and I implore you to do the same.
Not for religion, rebellion, attention, or because someone said so,
do it for yourself.
Meditation is clearing your mind, teaching yourself to be patient,
and focus. When having a bad day and someone bumps into you,
you can just as easily get angry and irritated,
or you could brush it off.
You see, meditation is a way to clear your mind.
I'm not saying it's the only way, or that it's the best,
but it's a way that helped me.
I'm not converting you,
I'm not pestering you,
I'm asking you,
because when I see that you're unhappy,
the kind of irritable, unhappy, aching person I used to be,
I want to see you be your best,
I mean no harm,
I simply want you to be happy.

This is not a poem.
This is a thing I must say.
To the adult upstairs who screams at me for being a religious, selfish, ignorant, horrible person,
simply because I found something that helps me, be a better me.
To the sneering strangers who think me odd for dressing in dark colors and conservatively, because the reason couldn't possibly be that I like the color, or that I prefer conservative clothes,
no, it's because I'm a satanic devil worshiper, and a *****.
To the snickering teenagers who run off to drink, smoke, and fill a void because they do not understand that.... that what?
I see these teenagers come to school with tears in their eyes and bruises on their heart,
I see them flinch in an instant from being vulnerable to vicious and vindictive, brushing it off and laughing at something that is not socially acceptable.

Do not do things for others.
Do them for yourself.
I cuss,
I have fun,
I act crazy,
but also poised,
knowledgable,
looked down upon as a degenerate,
but I simply don't care,
because I'm healthy, strong, opinionated,
driven, confident, understanding,
tactile,  and most importantly.
I'm happy.




Also Dapper,
Very dapper,
Dapper is a great word.
:)

I dropped my pencil
it fell under the table.
I left it there.
I desperately wanted to continue to write
-but-
anxiety told me no.
Told me it was impossible.
There were too many people in the room
bending down would look awkward
disturb the person next to you
make you a pitiful inconvenience--
so I left it there.
I couldn't even pick it up when I left.
Because Anxiety was right,
it was an impossible task.

Let me post a selfie
how's my hair
makeup
angle
filter
how do I look
did I get likes yet?
Let me post a status
one about how much I love my besties
another on how I learned a new lesson
now here's a photo of my breakfast
I have to comment
like
poke
post new updates
every day
becuase that's just what you do nowadays,
that's just how it goes
because we're all so afraid
if we don't keep posting
if we don't get those likes
and invites
and pokes
and fill up our messages
and notifications,
that we're going to be forgotten.
That if we don't solidify our presence
on social media
then we don't have a presence at all.
We spend so much time
trying to make other people
think we exist,
that we never end up existing at all,
not really.
We don't need all these people
and confirmations
to tell us we exist.
we already do.
If only it weren't so easy to forget that.

In the shower of glory, I hang my head.
In the light of beauty,
            I am ashamed.
evoked guilt
   screaming for retribution
my face,
   unable to be kept fragile
puffs and ages
    oh what guilt!
    oh this guilt!
oh gift me a shroud!

Eat me baby
raw with passion
steamed and crisp
tear me apart
drizzle me with honey
eat me baby
carnivorous delight
silver platter
just for you
bare your teeth
cooked to perfection
eat me baby
lick your lips
lick me
and lick the plate clean.

don't cry
daddy loves you
daddy loves you so much
he can't keep his hands off you.

Don't tell anyone
they wouldn't believe you anyhow
just know daddy loves you
daddy loves you

she's been staring at blank pages
tapping her pencil against the desk
shaking her foot
she's been staring at blank pages
lost for inspiration.

she's started to cry
late at night
sometimes in the day
she's got a weight on her chest
she overwhelmed with emotions.

She's been filling up those blank pages
pencil swishing back and forth
paintings
drawings
poems
stories
each tear drop
a new chapter
every sniffle
a stroke of the brush

overjoyed to produce lovely work
dying from the pain
loathing the necessity
that artists
need to be miserable
in some way
or another
to be great

I have tiger stripes on my hands,
I have them on my arms, legs and back too,
some are red and some are white.
I have tiger stripes lacing up and down my body,
proud because I've earned them,
proud because these scars,
   from memories I can't recall,
have made my teeth sharp
                    and eyes quick.

I have tiger stripes up and down my body,
Proud because I've earned them,
Proud because I deserve them,
Proud because I'm fearless.

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.

he's in the next room,
that man,
and what do I think of him?
more importantly what do I think of myself?
Each night like clockwork
thoughts begin to drizzle
and put a weight on my heart,
fear that I'm making a mistake
that I need to get out
before it's too late,
fear that I'll regret this all in a year
fear that I'm worth nothing more
than his toy,
he does, in every breath,
something to contradict all my fears
yet here I am
3am
and I'm petrified
I'm going to get hurt.

When the silence takes the stage,
and I am called upon to perform, oh what a fool I shall be.
Dance monkey dance they'll say, and dance I shall.

On all fours I crawl,
your *****.
Leash me up
in a tight collar
speaking for your laughter.

Here it is,
my self respect,
I present it to you,
I give it all, unto you.
For I no longer need it.

It's a small price to pay for this life.
It's a simple token
for the price of a fancy gown,
for the reward of approval... from strangers.
To be able to buy that fancy car
To be the envy of it all.

To be admired...
For this handsome repayment
loss of self worth
seems nothing.

and it is nothing
until late at night
when I stare at my skinny bones
in a large
but empty apartment
with the city's lights
shadows dancing out my regrets on the walls,
reminiscing of the whole person I used to be.
when I was someone you could respect...
someone who could say no
and had control
and didn't live under constant contract
and scrutiny of the monster that is the media.

Late at night,
with a morning soon coming,
a morning filled
with my stripped body
contorting itself
and writhing
for the camera
to please a generation I will never know.
To flaunt materialism
and narcissism
expected to sound sagacious
and preach this deceitful verisimilitude
but teaching the youth
to be broken and hateful-
to live with these quixotic expectations.
and
it
is
disgusting.

Yet here I am.
Stripped,
broken and battered,
pouting my photoshop lips
and limp, sick body
to preach it day after day.

For It was so long ago,
that I was respectable.
perhaps I could better remember those days-
but in this life
with a restriction on ennui
you are not allowed to be anything but
deliriously content
and that is not a problem so long as this bottle doesn't run out,
so long as I keep swallowing these pills,
drowning out the voice
that despises me.

So long as I keep on acting.

Let's go to the mountain top
and scream
and scream
until the sorrow in our voices
is no more

Don’t you dare ask me that question,
I beg of you, stop looking at me.
All of you stop!
Just leave me be.
I couldn’t even if I wanted to,
I’m not mean
I’m not crazy
How dare you say that I’m selfish,
I’m trying my best but can’t you see?
Clearly it’s killing me.
There is no shame in my honest silence,
Unlike the provocative lies you spew
Day after day
Pretending that you are good,
Fibbing that you’re okay.
I don’t lie like that,
Completely invisible when I lie flat,
Talk to me,
Set me free,
For I am she,
She with no name,
No chance of fame,
When you speak the tears will flow,
I promise this is not a show.
All the horror stories that I hear,
What is audible,
And being noticed,
THAT is my one true fear.

Oh you pretty young thing
you skinny darling
sit right down here
back straight
chest forward
smile big
and you eat that plate,
appetizer
four course meal
and desert
don't you worry skinny-Minnie
nobody's going to bat an eye.

Hold up-
wait right there fat-Phara
don't you touch a thing!
stand back against the wall
away from the table away from the food.
we know how you try
you lumpy woman you,
don't you eat
that appetizer
four course meal
and desert
because all the skinny-Minies
and all the fat-Pharas
will be watching you
judging you
disgusted by your intake.

Don't tell me it's genetics
this world doesn't run on logic
you're lazy Phara,
so you stand against the wall
and judge the other Pharas
and smile at the Minies
because that's how things should be.


I know you want to eat that meal
the same as them,
but if you work hard
keep standing
maybe one day
you'll sit down without breaking the chair,
here,
take a mint,
it'll hold you over till tomorrow.

I am happy.
I am happier than one can be
If happy is another name for Misery
because then my Happy is endless.
It's a sick kind of misery,
a kind I've written of before.
It eats me from the inside out
but gives just enough
to keep me living off it evermore.
.
It's a ***** kind of misery.
One I can't quite place.
Each day I saunter from place-to-place
with such broken elegance
I feel as if I'm floating,
my puppeteer gently tugging at my strings.
.
It''s the kind of misery I cannot live without,
the kind of misery that taunts me
and keeps my mind occupied for hours
with thoughts of atrocities.
.
I focus on a spot,
I let that spot consume me.
The name,
*******,
it soothes me.
I'd never do drugs,
I'd never drink,
I claim this time and time again,
but why do I need it,
something I've never experienced,
something a naive young girl like me knows nothing about,
yet I dream of it.
I think about it all day long,
snorting
and an assortment of needles too
not to feel alive of course,
but to feel nothing-
to feel nothing at all.
Sometimes I sit in the dark
and I wheep,
I wheep for such atrocities as those
for they are horrid
but I want them
I NEED them
an addiction to something I've never known.
.
That is not all.
I'm in desperate need of hurt.
Desperate need of pain.
Desperate need of nothing-
need of death.
I do not want to die,
I simply want to feel nothing.
When I don't think of atrocities
My heart is pinned to dark Angels.
These dark angels change from time to time
but there remains a constant-
they are sick.
Bowie is my love,
my life,
my light,
he heals me in every which way
but there are other Angels too.
Those such as Joe Van Moyland
that sick little man
bone with a tight layer of skin
with floppy hair
have you seen that man
so sick
so grotesque
how can I not admire it.
I look at the healthy and I cringe,
I look at the sick and addicted
and I swoon.
I see these sick monsters whom
I've conjured up the idea that
monsters like them know the secret,
the secret to nothing
and secret to misery.
.
As my grades plummet
and quality fades
I leave friends behind
to spend my hours in a dark room,
starving myself silly
daydreaming of atrocities
and dark Angels
so that I may fill my body with misery
and maybe someday achieve the ideal
of nothing.

You think because I'm quiet,
that I am hateful too.

and you think,
that because I am quiet,
I am clever.

Quiet means so many
different things to different people,
innocent,
bored,
unhappy,
angry,
resentful,
narcissistic,­
dreamy,
mysterious,
quaint,
selfish,
shy,
rude,
ignorant,
misant­hropic,

But did you ever think,
that maybe my silence
is the loudest
of all cries for help?

Did you ever think,
that maybe I am silent,
because I am afraid?

I’m afraid of thunder
I don’t know why.
Long hours as a child
Under my blanket with muffled cries.
Alone.

I’m afraid of thunder.
I like the sound,
I like the way it reverberates throughout the sky.
I like the way it calls for adventure,
For a battle,
For romance,
For horror,
I like the way it means excitement.

I’m afraid of thunder.
Something about the boom.
Something about the crackle.
Something about it that shakes my heart
And rattles my bones.

I’m afraid of thunder.
I like the inspiration that comes trotting up alongside it.
Something about the sound.
I’m afraid of the ominous possibilities that come with it.

Thunder,
It is a dangerous but beautiful sound.

you have no idea
                                what it feels like
to not be able
                        to *feel

Alone.
She eats alone,
She sleeps alone,
She breathes alone,
She sings along,
She draws alone,
She writes alone,
she thinks alone,
she worries alone,
she cries alone,
she screams alone,
she controls her frustration alone,
she fixes her own problems alone,
.
.
But she does not smile alone.
She does not smile at all, really.
She is alone in every way.
Crowded rooms pushing her
this way and that,
but all the same
she is still alone.
She hides,
alone,
from the friends who ask her to come out.
For the dreaded fear of being alone in a crowd
is far worse than simply being alone
in the safety of one's lonely abode.
.
She has always been alone.
She is alone.
She will alway she will always be alone.
She is used to being forgotten,
to not being noticed,
and she has adapted.
Now that she is older,
she simply doesn't know what to do with herself.
She knows she is alone
and sometimes that is why her heart aches.
That is why her body twists and turns
and tears begin to flow
even though she did not mean too.
She knows she is alone,
truly, she likes to be alone.
Alone she cannot bother anyone,
she cannot hurt anyone,
make mistakes,
or even have a chance to be forgotten.

But sometimes the knowing that she is alone,
sometimes it hurts.
Sometimes she curls in a ball
in a dark room
while the house is empty
and she wallows.
She does not cry,
she simply sits.
Curled up in the frightful misery
that she may not like to be alone.
She knows she likes to be alone,
that things are simple that way
and it frees her of worry,
but sometimes these horrid thoughts
slip in through the cracks of the walls
she has built up so sturdy.
Sometimes those thoughts pull her
and tell her that she should talk to someone.
Tell them that she is hurting,
that she is in pain,
that something it wrong but she doesn't know what.
But then she runs and plugs the holes
because she knows that being alone is how she MUST be.

She writes a poem,
now and then,
and though it is just a few words,
she will sit in the dark,
typing away
with the light from her laptop screen
twinkling into the tears streaming down her face.
Poems make it easy,
writing down words make it easy to remind her
that even if she didn't want to be alone,
no one would want her.
So it's better that she wants to be forgotten.
It saves her from all the chances she has to be hurt.

Hurt like she used to be hurt.
Physical,
Mental,
the little girl who would hop out her window
after blocking her door
as she runs from a man who wants to leave more bruises.

The little girl who would wake up with ****** hands
because she was not allowed to show how she really felt when she was awake,
so her body would scream for help in her sleep
and leave the walls by her bed ******.

The little girl who was loud and opinionated,
who was told that it wasn't okay
told that she shouldn't speak.

The little girl whose best-friend told a lie,
and left the little girl alone.

The little girl who stopped having birthdays
because she did not deserve the attention
or the presents.

The little girl who was left alone too often.
The little girl who played by herself...
She became an older girl who was much the same.
At night the walls are clean but Bruxism
leaves her head foggy
and throbbing
each morning.
An older girl who maintained friends
but would spend the weekends in her room,
alone.
The girl who wouldn't open presents
or have herself celebrated in anyway.

She became an older girl
whose only wish,
was to make others happy,
even if it meant that she wasn't.