Somehow, in these dark hours, it feels all the more comfortable to profess all the wrongs in my life to you.
The dark sneaks up on us and pats our shoulders, enveloping our fears and complications— choking them out with a simple grace of its non-existence.
Secrets don’t  echo so loudly in its embrace.
Words slip out in pure darkness, our eyes focused on exactly nothing, our ears only working to hear the steady breath of one another— a reassurance that we’re both here, indefinitely attending to our late-night ramblings.
It’s such a dream,
that,
these words that hold such great meaning are now flooded into the ears of you sitting right beside me.
And instead of ignoring me, you listen.

You tell me my hair is horrid—wretched, too different from everyone else.
You call me names and mock me endlessly for something I was born with—
Something I never even had a choice over.
It was a crime sentenced to me before I was given the chance to choose between peace and uncertainty within myself.

But when I try to change it,
You turn around and lie through your lips and teeth—
Telling me it’s gorgeous, that I shouldn’t change it,
That it’s unique and different, that it unequivocally embodies who I am.

Who am I supposed to believe,
When all you do is give me mixed signals?

I often wonder what birds are thinking.
Why they decided that this patch of grass they’re inspecting isn’t as good as that one over there.
So they pivot.
Flap their wings away.
I wonder why they’re so free— so willing to exist in a world that offers no reprieve.
Why they’re offered a life without chains— the freedom to be anywhere, in any which way.

You say my grades don’t matter.
You say, “I love you no matter what.”
Then why am I invisible?
Why do they only see the red numbers on my sheet?

You ask me, “Is everything fine?”
What do you expect me to say —
that I’m f**d up?
That I dream about leaving?
That I keep a blade in my front pocket?

You say I don’t share,
but you don’t pay attention.
I play the piano till my fingers bleed,
I scream songs that reflect me,
I even talked to you.

Maybe it’s because you liked me,
never loved me.
Maybe I’m so flawed I can’t see,
or maybe it’s both.
Maybe we’re both flawed —
we’re only human.

I’ve been waiting my whole life.
Waiting for the next day, next month, next year.
Essentially I’ve been waiting for my death, my very own due date.
Tick.
Tock.
Tick.
Tock.
And suddenly the day has come.
And they’re knocking at your door.
And maybe they don’t have horns.
And maybe they aren’t wearing the cloak of a renowned deity.
Maybe they aren’t exactly horrible to look at.
Maybe they’re beautiful, pleasant.
And they welcome you with open arms.

Happy families, smiling,
enjoying time together,
atmosphere filled with their laughter.

And then -

in a moment of madness,
all silenced.

Bullets took over,
dead bodies lying all around.

Terror strikes the land
we call "Paradise on Earth."