I survive off caffeine of sorts.
I survive off Bon Iver and Elliott Smith.
I survive off minimal money and ****** gas station jobs.
Lastly, I survive off of tiny computers and loads of paper.

I hope for a better day.
I hope for a home.
I hope for a family to call my own.
And I hope for a nice house and job in my future.

I live for poetry slams and trauma.
I also live for suicide awareness and ****** assault centers.
I live for helping the community and
getting my **** together.

I hate dogs and I hate people who **** people.
I hate people who eat tomatoes like apples.
I hate the fact I have enough trauma to last 3 lifetimes, but somedays, I really like I get to speak about my experience.
And somedays, I just hate life.

But today?
Today I survive off a 24oz cup of coffee.
I hope for a family.
I live for the knowledge that a better day will come.
And I hate my mother.

Imagine that I'm happy.
That I am safe.
That I'm listening to music every day 'till I'm 18.
That I have a cat to hug when I'm sad.
Imagine that I'm at a safe, happy, home.
That the home has heat.
It has people I can call mom and dad.
It has a room I can decorate for my own.
Imagine that I have resources for myself that better prepare for the world.
Transitional Living Program.
Anger management counseling.
And most importantly, A home!!
Imagine I feel alive.
That I go on road trips
That I have deep conversations and really think.
That I live for me.
Imagine.

I'm scared.
Scared of the demons in my head,
and monsters under my bed.
Scared of the dead,
and scared of what I said.

I'm fearful.
Fearful of hugs,
and of what's in the jug.
I'm fearful of bugs,
and also those pugs.

I'm petrified.
Petrified of getting space.
and of too much space.
Petrified of a phone case,
and even an embrace.

I'm scared.

54

If I should die,
And you should live—
And time should gurgle on—
And morn should beam—
And noon should burn—
As it has usual done—
If Birds should build as early
And Bees as bustling go—
One might depart at option
From enterprise below!
’Tis sweet to know that stocks will stand
When we with Daisies lie—
That Commerce will continue—
And Trades as briskly fly—
It makes the parting tranquil
And keeps the soul serene—
That gentlemen so sprightly
Conduct the pleasing scene!

The sight of jail is beyond frightening.
It's locked doors.
It's watching guards tear our your freedom as if it's nothing.
It's blue outfits you're forced upon your will to wear.
The smell of jail is the smell of the girl ******* her insides out.
It's the smell of half cooked meat, but hey at least it's food.
And it's the smell of musty deodorant.
The sound of jail is the sound of T.V.
It's people yelling.
Guards screaming at you.
The feel of jail is cold sheets and a mattress just a titch too hard to sleep on.
It's the feeling of isolation and depression seeping in.
It's the not so quiet feeling of sadness.
The taste of jail is lemonade that's ever so sour and gross.
It's the taste of blood because you keep biting your nails.
And lastly, it's the taste of your own fingernails. Because it's the only thing you can do to pass the 17 hours you have all 4 lights on.