“Don’t talk to me in that tone!”
Yes, mother, I apologize for my insolent self.

“Why can’t you be more like your brother? He’s younger than you!”
Yes, mother, I apologize for my insolent self.

“You need to lose weight! You’re too fat!”
Yes, mother, I apologize for my insolent self.

“I am the mother! You are the daughter! I own you!”
Yes, mother, I apologize for my insolent self.

“You are such a disappointment.”
I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
I’m so sorry mother.
I’m not the daughter you expect of me.
I will be better.

Why am I never good enough for you?
You comment on my flaws, constantly, diminishing my already low self-esteem.
You compare me to others, saying how I should be more “like them.”
Will you love me if I’m compliant with your every wish?
I’m sorry I’m not your perfect daughter.
Stop reminding me that you love my brother more than me.

I’m sorry.
For being who I am.
For being different.
For bringing you pain.
For not being enough.

Please. Stop. Don't.
Your words. Won't leave.
My head. Hurts.
I don't want to listen.
Make it stop.
I can't take it anymore.
SHUT UP!

I’m sick of listening.
I’m sick of you.
I hate myself.
I hate you.

I know.
I should be more like him.
I know.
I am not perfect.
I know.
I do not have your love.
I know.
You hate me.
I KNOW.
I’m a disappointment.

little girls don't play with dolls.
they paint.

deep paintings and the thin.

a blade, her brush.

her wrist, the canvas.

the little girl only used red when she painted,

and her paintings would never leave her body.

they would stay there, reminding her of every emotion she
illustrated on her pale body.

the girl was a painter,
a true artist.

never had she wanted to become one,
but she did.

little girls don't play with dolls.
they paint.

i do not write poetry.
i do not write poetry, my soul touches the blank paper and blurts out some truth.

i am not a poet, i do not write poetry.
i am not a poet. my heart spills the ink onto the page and lets me take credit. i do not write poetry, my soul touches the blank paper and blurts out some truth.

i am not original, i am not a poet, i do not write poetry.
i am not original. i copy a poem that my mind already wrote and then i plagiarize it. i am not a poet. my heart spills the ink onto the page and lets me take credit. i do not write poetry, my soul touches the blank paper and blurts out some truth.

i am not original, i am not a poet, i do not write poetry.

i'm lost in an ocean,
sinking in quick sand thats not so quick.

slowly i'm sinking deeper and deeper each day.
and you're just watching from the side lines.
you wont throw me a rope
or help me.

you just silently watch me.

when i finally drown you say you didn't see the signs.

but darling.

you drowned me.

depression is like being colourblind.
expect your colourblind to happiness.

you know it exists and you know its there.

and you want to see it.

but you see you see the world in the lens of depression.