and she was not beautiful, but she loved.
and she was not kind, but she cared.
and she was not bored, but she listened.
and all because she was human.
and the people like her turned her into a devilish monster,
whose flaws are haunting.
and nothing could make the ache disappear.

my bones are twisted. the
skeleton cracked at year thirteen
with what could only
be age or agony-
probably a gnarled collaboration
of the two.

i think i've been twenty-one
since i was born; at least, that's
what every teacher i've ever had
thought of me: "mature for her age".
so did every ****** guy high off of
green smoke with eyes glazed over in

lust, either staring at me or straight
through my jeans, whistling and howling
like wolves with blood dripping
down their chins and claws
ready to ****** something already

gone.

i think that's why i died young.

I'm sorry
That I text you
At four a.m.
When
I
Can't
Breathe
Because of
Anxiety attacks.

I'm sorry that
I can't make serious phone calls
Or order at Subway
Around the corner,
Even though I know
I like thinly sliced turkey
And chipotle dressing.

I'm sorry that
I forget things like
Birthdays and middle names
And I'm sorry
That I don't know how to
Kiss.

I'm sorry
That you think
When I don't take a compliment
I'm fishing for you
To keep going,
Because in my rotting skull
That option
Isn't even possible.

I'm sorry.
So sorry.
That if you're
Nice to me
I will never
Ever
Believe you
Actually like me.

Imagine wanting to say something,
Having so much to say,
But nothing will come out.
You're trapped in your own mind.
It's as if you have stage fright,
And the whole world is a stage,
And you can't speak the lines
That you've rehearsed
Over and over, countless times.

Imagine people telling you
To stop being shy, to talk,
But they don't understand
How real this fear is.

What if you say the wrong things?
What if no one likes you?
Feeling as if they think you're weird,
That they don't want to talk to you.
And it's those fears that trap the words,
Trap all the things you have to say.
It's not easy, it's terrifying.
And no one seems to get it,
This is not just shyness,
This is not antisocial,
It's anxiety, it's a phobia.
And it hurts.

For some people,
Reality is too much to bear.
For some people,
The weight of the air in their lungs
Is too heavy to hold
And for some
Just living is
too much.

Call it insanity if you want
Go ahead, cast that stone
if you want

I call it a hyper-awareness.
And maybe a mind with too
logical a view of how
Illogical
It all is and how
Tragically
Ironic life is and how
Impending
Our doom is.

I know a fair few of these.
They are mostly good, kind people
Who have too good an understanding of the words
"Infinite"
And
"Nothing"
And of the point where those two words meet.

So to my friends who want to end it
Because they see too much every day
Who can't breathe because they're
Drowning in rising water-
I hope you live long enough to find
A reason to.
Because I am confident
That like with all things,
If you persist in looking

You will succeed in finding.