I loved you
And you loved me too
But for all the wrong
**Reasons

as a thirteen year old,
I had to grow up a little too fast and put up my big girl pants on
due to daddy losing his job.

as a thirteen year old,
I found a new way of expressing myself.
but, instead of painting or screaming,
I did both,
and began painting with crimson
and screaming along with the rest of the voices in my head.

as a fourteen year old,
I turned down the medication they said I needed to survive
and got clean,
deciding I could do it all on my own.

as a fifteen year old,
I fell in love with a boy that was no good for me,
and whose worlds were like gasoline,
and whose touch was like fire.
daddy never approved,
and mommy always shook her head in disappointment.

as a sixteen year old,
I lost myself in whiskey,
and fell back into using my thighs as a canvas
after three years of being clean.

as a sixteen year old,
my eyes stung with salt water from crying an ocean almost every night.
and I lost my soul and became a walking corpse with dead lifeless eyes.

as a sixteen year old,
I never got along with mommy.
I told her we shouldn't talk anymore.
I told her I hated her.

as a sixteen year old,
I look back on when I was thirteen,
and I'm blown away with how much of a disappointment I am.
and how saving myself isn't something I want.
it's something I need.

as a thirteen year old,
I never thought I'd be such an awful daughter,
and such a terrible person.
and I most defiantly never thought my life
would turn out as tragic as
*this

there's 6 types of sadness:
1) the break in your heart when your high school love says he doesn't love you anymore and that he found someone new that's better than you
2) the 4 am feeling of loneliness when you realize nobody is ever really there when you need it the very most
3) the shaky feeling that runs through your spine when all you crave is a blade and to see crimson run down your thigh
4) the realization that your teenage years are drifting away from you because a boy ruined everything you've ever loved including yourself
5) the agony in the pit of your stomach from that one time in 8th grade when mommy told you she hated you and that she wanted to **** you
6) the shame and stupidity you feel when you run your fingertips across your textured skin from that time in 7th grade when your friend convinced you that a blade was a good release which led to your rapid downfall and you not having the ability to live without it running across your skin

it's weird that Brits say "chips" instead of "french fries",
and it's sad that your dad says "you're hopeless" instead of "I love you".
it's weird that the sun pokes up out of the ground at different times everyday,
and it's sad that it hurts more when you poke your finger than when you run the blade down your skin.
it's weird that the sun still shines when it's 3 degrees outside,
and it's sad that 3 am is filled with thoughts of agony and your pillow is stained with the salt water from your eyes.
it's weird that there's 365 days in a year but it dreads on feeling like 1,000,
and it's sad that the pills that are supposed to make you feel better for your depression only make you want to swallow 365 more to make the pain go away.
it's weird that you're forced to go to school with ignorant teenagers that have no idea what they want in life besides getting high,
and it's sad that those teenagers romanticize self harm and depression like it's beautiful to have demons in your mind eating away your sanity.

I remember when I was in the hospital and I didn't sleep for two days straight because I swore to god that if I did the demons would step out from under the bed and seep into my head.

I remember when it was three am, and I was shaken awake from the girl three doors down shrieking from the night terrors that her mother embedded into her skull with her fist and a belt when she was eight. But, they were then stored away until she was thirteen years old and a man swore that he'd beat her if she didn't cooperate. So, now they hide during the day, and creep back up when the sun falls.

I remember when I witnessed a boy unintentionally scratch at his skin until he bleed for an hour because the voices inside of his mind told him that if he didn't hurt anyone else, he would just have to hurt himself. and he swears he'd never hurt anyone besides himself.

I remember when I met a girl who had cuts up and down her arms and legs from when her mother told her she'd never survive the world because she isn't good enough. But, I swear to god that she was the strongest person I've ever met.

I remember when my roommate stayed up all night rocking with bloodshot eyes and deep purple circles underneath of them because she swore that if she slept the monsters inside of her head would crawl out and bleed into her soul.

I remember when the boy five doors down hit the wall so hard that it shook the entire unit because he hallucinated a man and a little girl trying to strangle him, and he swore he could feel the noose around his neck.  

even through all of this, for some odd reason teenagers think it's lovely to have deep scars and to hear voices telling them to **** themselves and everyone around them. I swear, nothing is lovely about demons eating at your brain and thoughts.

I remember when it was four am, and I was up weeping from the fact that people think my suffering is lovely.

I can swear to you, it's not.

I'm going to spend the rest of my life trying to write poetry that grows sunflowers in hearts like what grew in mine when I was with you