I was born on a hot july night but I have always found solace in the rain,
I am a snowflake rather than a hot summer breeze,
which makes me sad.
I feel beautiful over summer, and disgusting during winter,
But there is something creative hidden in the grey skies and thunderstorms,
That I miss greatly as soon as June comes around.
I can not write or paint when I feel beautiful,
I am too busy, dancing, flirting, singing.
I can not be angry when the stranger smiles at me on the bus,
Or when the man tells me I'm the prettiest sight he has seen this year,
I can only write angry poems,
about the raindrops, and lightning and the warmth of a bed, when I feel sad.
I blossom in winter.
And wilt and die as my birthday arrives.

They don't tell you about the truly tragic parts of these disorders.
About how I haven't showered for 4 days because my life has lost its meaning.
Or how I have been wearing this shirt for 2 weeks now
because I see no point in changing.
They tell you about pretty symmetrical cuts and tears that flow like rain,
But not about the rock you get in your throat because you can no longer cry,
or how your arms are so burnt and cut up that you can no longer sleep because the pain is so excruciating.
They tell you about how near and beautiful recovery is,
but there is no recovery. There is only here and now. And here and now hurts.
They don't tell you about the amount of men you have *** with just to replace the love you've lost,
yet you end up emptier.
They tell you about poetic sadness, but not about the numbness. Where sadness has festered for so long, it has moulded and lost its taste.
They don't tell you about the 2 year waiting lists just to be rejected,
or about the 3am visits to A+E, because life has gotten so painful that you feel like your chest will explode.
They don't tell you about the physical strains of these illnesses; the jitters in your legs, the shortness of breath, the constant nausea...
They don't tell you about the disappointment your family feels.
They don't tell you how weak you feel, because you can't get out of bed for the 7th day running, and the fainting because you haven't drank for 4 days because keeping yourself alive is more effort than its worth.
They will never tell you about the intrusive thoughts, about ******, ****, babies (I just want them to stop)
They don't tell you about the racist, sexist, critical man that lives in your head.
Or about how when your psychiatrist asks you ''how do you feel?'' You can't answer,
Because you do not feel.
And have not felt for 2 and a half years now.
They don't tell you how difficult it is to find help in a society where self harm is artistic and psychosis is tragically beautiful, and we are all expected to be our own hero.
To ''Save yourself''.
I need help because living like this is not beautiful, it is deblilating and sad. I need help because I am ill, and I can not be my own hero.

By the end of the night my mascara leaves black smudges under my eyes because I spend so much time looking down.
I think there is some poetry to be found in the blackness that stains my face, but I have become too tired to find beauty in the ugly moments.

There is no beauty in the bugs that travel frantically around my veins,
Or the *** stained memories of drunken kisses,
The darkness hiding behind the pedophiles that live under my bed is raw ugliness.    
         It is not beautiful that I think so much
about *******.

And my desperate need to be desired is vile; it is not poetry.

I will never be able to write poetry...

I have been up for 2 days worrying about infinity and I am
ugly.
I have spent all of my life worrying about an invisible father,
rhyming words and built up anger.

this is it.

I will only believe in the beautiful things now,
Like my mothers face.
and a kiss on the shoulder at midnight,
I have spent far too long in the dark, to put my faith into unseeable light.

The first verse is the sound of your groans from the kitchen during your failed attempts at making lasagna.

The second verse is the sound of your laughter while you're watching your favorite comedy movie for the fifth time.

The first chorus is the sound of the creaking floorboards as you walk towards me and join me in bed.

The third verse is the sound of your heavy breathing after we made love.

The fourth verse is the sound of you typing on your computer; all focused with a creased forehead, and occasional lip-bites.

The second chorus is the sound of you trying to explain to your four-year-old niece where babies come from.

The last verse is the sound of you saying 'I love you' on our first Christmas morning together.

I remember asking my dad,
“How many stars are in the sky,”
and he said something like,
“Way too many to count.”
But I’ve counted.
And after recounting
                                      and recounting
and scribbling in my notebook
under my fathers flashlight
I can tell you that there is
indeed a number.

And to this day I prefer
reading the stars over anything.
They’re the oldest book ever written.
Space: the oldest canvas to be sewn
and the cosmos the paint of Picasso.
Each spec is its own character
each pair a set of eyes
where I can lose myself in their gaze.
A celestial connect the dots
where I collect the pictures
and pick out my favorite spots.

But when my son
is old enough to ask,
“How many stars are in the sky?”
I’ll just hand him a notebook
and tell him to read what he sees.

-the raindrops remind me of waking up on 4th of July feeling lonely.
-my sheets whisper your name everytime i dare to move. i ache.
-my last text from you was 8.12.13
-You are beautiful. and i am sad. We will never work out.
-sometimes i wear red lipstick to see my psychiatrist. I just want to feel strong.
-i sleep for 14 hours and wake up tired.
-the ghosts in my room tug on my curls. they remind me of You.
-i feel tainted.
-oh god, oh god, oh god.
-whilst i sleep the waves rush over my head. i feel peace.
-there have been bugs in my veins since the last time we slept together.
-i am nothing, i am nothing, i am nothing.
-i have been using clever words so You will think i still have a brain.
-i sit in the bath until it turns grey to remind myself that i am dirt.
-i can not be a self love poem.
-You left me drunk and naked everytime.
-i am the beginning of a long, cold winter.
-i am a snowflake amongst sunflowers and children playing.
-Pain. Pain. Pain.
-the ringing in my ears has gotten louder since You said You missed me.
-i will never be Sylvia Plath.
-these walls scream out my secrets.
-i would like to be naked Polaroids and cocktails
but i am £2.31 white wine and ugly obscenities.
-i am an increase of prozac.
-You always mentioned your hate for winter.
-i will crave you for eternity.
-the earth will tremble like my voice. hands. eyes.
-this rain will last forever.