i glance
at this
clock because
this block
will never
oh how
i hate
this frickn
clock that
only ever
shifts when
i dont
stare and lift
my hands
to my
head where
these thoughts don’t
oh my god
where is my
all i have left
is profanity
i need to
purge myself
of vanity
on this clock
that prevents
me of thought
oh what i
would give
to not
live in this
twisted plot
where tears
and fears
and ears
hear all
they should
but i cry
maybe if i
die i can
finally shed
the stress
against the wall
here we
i sit and let
the demons
my name
to play
their game
but i cannot
blame these
voices give
me the
for what i
create in
this screwed up
only adds
to the dread
that follows me around
invisible and
without sound
but still
it drives me
into the ground
what would
if i drowned
in this misery
oh why do i
try to find
victory when
all i ever
win is
self-inflicted injury
makes me
feel somewhat
at peace
nevermind the
blood but
the marks might
draw attention
gotta cover
up not to mention
im alright
didnt sleep
last night
im just
tired of
this fight
that just might
end me
what will
come free my mind im
floating at sea
calm breeze
thoughts tease
hope flees
and again i am
left to sit
and grit
my teeth
as class continues
i want to
my head
the wall
the bell
sends me
into shock
i glance
at the
as my body
begins to
out of this
I have worked
hard for
freedom though
i know
it will go
as i return
for school

(altered for public consumption- profanity  edited out)

We meet again, dirty tile. I rest my head against the wall, staring at you as the cold water spurting from the leaky shower head
hits my back in violent, uncoordinated patterns.
Now begins another session of deep contemplation...
what will we explore this time?
Why my family insists on being so loud? The recent event on the news, and how utterly ridiculous politicians act? The newest drama from school? What strange "fact" friend said to me this morning that made me question her internet sources?
No. Tonight is a night of tears.
They run down my face, leaving hot streaks that come as a shock after the steady drumming of the cold water on my body.
Picking up speed, I feel like a shower of my own...
why am I so sad?
For many months I've asked myself this question.
Every day I enter this shower
and reveal my true face to you,
little tile.
This shower is my version of a zen garden... the only place I can truly delve into the emotions I have pushed so far away.
But try as I might, I can't keep this mask on forever.
More and more tears fall from my contorted face.
it's everything.
the answer is everything.
I am constantly told to be grateful for all I have, to be thankful for the roof over my head and my food and clothes and family...
Do they really believe I lack gratitude?
That my emotionless face equates to me acting
Apparently it is unacceptable
for me to show my true face,
dirty tile.
Evidently I must smile for the crowd, despite what
decay is taking hold inside.
So I will let these tears silently fall.
They are all that keep me real,
keep me human;
capable of other emotions than an exhausted smile
plastered to a weary face.
But I haven't long, I must collect myself again.
As my head separates from the porcelain surface,
I fix my eyes on you, my square friend.
What have I become?


Where is that little girl I used to know?
The one that helped me make faces in the half melting snow?
The child that would spend hours on the battered couch with me,
Wasting precious time trying to find our show on TV.
What ever happened to my first
best friend?
Oh the seconds, minutes, hours we would spend-
all before more devilish
Door-bell Ringing
followed by rapid
Sprinting back
to your house
on the end of
the cul-de-sac
to find your angry mother,
whom later we'd
secretly laugh at...
So many memories,
Jumping fences,
Kicking soccer balls,
Washing sand from my eyes,
Ignoring the teacher to
make faces and laugh,
which we then disguised
as coughing so the fun
could carry on,
throughout kindergarten,
first, second, third,
and so on.
So many days spent crying over how you left me...
Now, my dear Brooke, I just think of you fondly.
Hopefully the next time I pass you
in the hallway,
you'll lift your head and look at me with those eyes I once adored,
which are now full of such
sadness and worry.
I yearn for those glory days, those beautiful times
I will never get back...
but maybe one day, I'll see a glimpse
of that silly little girl I once loved
who lived at the end
of the cul-de-sac.

You are like rain.
quiet and soft;
beautiful no matter how intense.
You are like rain.
steady and swift;
as you go,
you leave my heart
colder than before.

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"I can see my door, my bed, my window, my chair, and my table.

"I can feel my spine against the wall, my feet against the floor, my jaw tightly shut, and my fingernails buried in my arms.

"I can hear the wind coming in from the open window, my heartbeat rapidly thumping, and that familiar voice in my head, shouting once again.

"I can smell the dampness of the ground outside as the breeze carries it to my room, and the sickly sweet odor from the soap used on my hands.

"I can taste my blood spilling from the bite in my lip; my last harsh reminder that

When you call a suicide prevention hotline, they will often ask you to describe to them 5 things you can see, 4 things you can feel, 3 things you can hear, 2 things you can smell, and 1 thing you can taste to help ease anxiety. I hope this poem helps someone struggling to look forward, because believe me, it does get better.

When strangers look at me,
they see a girl who seems
I understand that
they might not get why.
It's hard to explain and
difficult to fully comprehend,
but it's okay.
How can I expect people
to commiserate, when they see me
obsessively counting steps,
perpetually cleaning surfaces,
constantly washing hands,
regularly checking locked doors,
randomly tapping everything,
and always
The answer is:
I can't.
But it's okay.
It's okay because I know I'm
I know I have odd routines
and strange rituals.
I know my fears aren't rational,
and my compulsions aren't
I know I look crazy to those
who don't know me,
who don't understand that there's
a constant battle in my
At the end of each day,
what really matters is not the
looks or degrading questions I
What matters is

"cant you just suck it up?"
my father asks me.
"maybe you need to be tougher,"
my therapist tells me.
"why do you let it all get to you?"
my best friend questions me.
"just let it roll off your back,"
my mother instructs me.
"what is wrong with you?"
my mind wonders.

we live in a world where we are trained
to be defensive around others,
not kind.
maybe instead of preparing for the cruelty of the world,
we can put down our weapons and
try to change the perspective
by turning the angry words into
hands to shake.

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