The coffee maker is broken.
Cigarettes are over eight dollars a pack.
My cat is being moody.
I am out of avocados.
My glasses are cracked.
I cannot find any tape.
Nothing is wrong.
I am wrong.
I am tired.
My car is out of gas.

Today I slept till noon.
I never do this and it scared me a lot.
The whole day was gone.
I have felt empty ever since.

Today I cooked some pasta.
It didn't stick and tasted very good.
I ate way too much.
I have felt sick ever since.

Today I had a breakdown.
I screamed and cried and threw a fit.
I broke a picture frame.
I've felt tragic ever since.

Is it too much to ask for someone to give a ****?
You are not blind.
You can see how ****** up I am.
You all can.
I can't ask for help again,
Because that does absolutely nothing.
Maybe if I stop cutting my legs,
And start cutting my wrists.
Maybe if I get drunk at 8 am.
Maybe if I start doing coke off the kitchen table again,
And waking up at 1 pm,
And staying in all day long.
And leave empty bottles of nyquil around my place,
Just for you to see.
What the **** do I have to do to get some ******* help?

At first, it feels as if you're being torn apart from the inside out,
Like your heart is trying to beat its way out of your chest,
And your whole body aches with sorrow.

Then the pain subsides and is replaced with numbness, nothingness.
The fire in your eyes turns into a faint flicker,
And consumed by emptiness, you start to miss the pain.

Eventually, you begin to feel again,
And the smallest reminder of him cuts you like a blade,
So you take that blade, red with relief, and drag it across your wrists.

You fake a smile and force a laugh
So people don't suspect that something's amiss.
After all, time is supposed to heal all wounds.

Except yours are still fresh.
The very thought of him slices deeper
Because you are unable to forget.

We blame society for everything.
We fault magazines for turning innocent teenage girls
Into anorexic beauty queens.
We point fingers at the paper thin actresses on TV screens
For bringing bulimia victims to their knees,
******* down their throat as they cough up that last bit dinner,
Along with the guilt and shame that comes with it.
We blame society, but we are society.
Who wrote those magazines?
Who created the ridiculous standard that you can only fit in
If your bones are showing through your skin?
Hunger is just a feeling; thin is a skill.
Your stomach isn’t growling because you’re starving.
No! It’s applauding you on a job well done,
On another day of nothing but celery sticks and diet coke.
Who cares if all of your hair falls out?
Who cares if you get dizzy every time you stand?
Who cares if the desire to be thin and meet this sick standard of beauty
Is slowly killing you, taking another piece of that innocent teenage girl
And turning her into a skeleton?
We, as a society, don’t care.
The magazines won’t stop printing
Because another high school kid got carried away.
Extreme, even deadly diets are a thing of today,
And yes, yes, they’re here to stay.
Sometimes eating healthy and exercising just aren’t enough.
Desperate times call for desperate measures,
And under this kind of pressure,
It’s hard not to give in.

So you need my help, huh?
Well, I'm sorry, my dear,
But I fear
I won't be of any assistance.
Do you remember when I cried in the middle of class
And you told me that he was "just a boyfriend"?
Remember when you made fun of my silence,
Even though you knew how broken I was?
Remember when I fell apart
And you impatiently waited
For me to put the pieces back together?
You may have forgotten,
But the memory's fresh in my mind.
You see, I've tried to let go,
But it appears that I'm stuck.
I'm sorry, my dear,
You're out of luck.

You asked me once how to define happiness.
I didn’t have an answer;
I still don’t.
All I know is you’re the closest thing
I’ve ever had to it.

He told me that he didn’t like his smile.
“It’s too big,” he said.
But little does he know that a smile like his
could light up an arena.

He told me that he didn’t like his voice.
“It sounds weird on tape,” he said.
But little does he know that a voice like his
could engage the toughest of crowds.

He told me that he didn’t like his laugh.
“It’s loud and obnoxious,” he said.
But little does he know that a laugh like his
could spread as if it were an infection.

He told me that he liked me.
“I want to be with you,” he said.
But little does he know that someone like him
could do so much better than someone like me.

Maybe you could have been more understanding.
Maybe I should have tried harder to be okay.
Maybe we just weren't meant to be
And got lost somewhere along the way.
But maybe if I wasn't so broken,
You would have stuck around,
And that thing we lost, whatever it was,
Could have possibly, just maybe, been found.