i looked at the moon tonight
until i felt insignificant
and so my problems felt insignificant
and i will do it again tomorrow night

I am weak.
The dead poke fun at me,
Every time I try to envision them,
Which would be every week.
I am stolen.
Because you can tell me you love me
And I will tell you why you don’t,
And you can tell me why you don’t
And I will agree with you.
Is this what they meant by “life”?
Is this what my parents wanted when they had me?
You can tell me I am young but that doesn’t make me.
My mom thinks everyone is just surviving,
She thinks this is surviving.
I am not.
I am not strong,
Because every time something always goes wrong,
I want to **** myself but I can’t,
Because they believe the pain does not last.
But it does.

I don’t ask why I am not enough for you,
I just focus on how I am not enough for you,
Or anyone,
Because I am stuck in between metal bars,
Always feeling like the heat is too strong in the summer,
Always feeling like something is trying to **** me.
I don’t ask why I am here,
I just focus on how there aren’t any set reasons,
But I never really ask for a reason why.

A reason why I am not okay?
I am prisoner to the peaks of life I cannot control,
Prisoner to the human body, to its brain.
And how who I am and who I want to be cannot connect.
I am prisoner because life is not what it seemed,
And I had no way of knowing.
I am prisoner because I never asked to be here, did I?

My morbidness hides nothing at stake,
Because I still wake up each morning,
To a world that feels like it is moving in slow motion,
To a life that doesn’t feel like my own.
My morbidness does not mean I am going to die,
Because not all of us have the strength,
Not all of us want to have to do it ourselves.

And I have my selves,
Because they are all hopeless yet laughing,
Breathing yet dying,
But it isn’t anything you’d want to see.

You’d want to believe I am surviving not suffering,
Because that’s what allows you to tell me
I have purpose in being here.
That is what allows you to think things will get better for me,
Whether or not they will. (They won’t).
That is what allows you to still love me,
Because I am not totally gone when I am.

But if love could save anyone,
There wouldn’t be a broken me,

There would be no such thing.

If I were a constellation,
I think I'd like to hang above your backyard.
Though my glow would already have been
too diminished for you to see me.
I guess-
I just keep trying.
And I guess
I just keep lying.
And I guess
I just keep thinking,

if I were not me,

if I were not me.

If I was put here for a reason,
then why do I hate being here?
My five Okay Days are always followed
by before-bed breakdowns and I think
Life, itself, is misleading.
If things are meant to be,
then why do they never work out for some?
Why do people commit suicide and
die miserable?
If that is "meant to be".

If that is meant to be then I have been
being for a long time, now.
I can have half of my heart collapse into
predisposed, depressed ruins and quit
being able to balance on my feet,
and I will be characterized by "low self esteem".
This is not low self esteem.
This is a lifestyle,
a product of eighteen years too early and eighteen years too late,
a brain too involved to ever break through, and
life is too long.
My originality finds loopholes in your positivity.
Soon it will be 30 years too early and 30 years too late,
and my life will have never had actual life to it.
If I was meant to be,
then I was meant to be miserable.

I am not an Amazement

People do not look at me and find gold

I am a blank canvas and Empty

And there are no stars inside because everything

Exists outside of me

I’m Mad because I do not like how I caught your eye

You thought I was Beautiful

But now your eyes have faded so they can’t see this far

And so my Beauty goes unnoticed and my scars are red

I’m a Scared, pessimistic girl

With no headspace for dreams

A lot of life doesn’t exist in my world

And it feels like the trees are blocking me

Like the curtains are drawn to keep you from seeing inside of me

Like the artists don’t want to paint me anymore

Like I am stuck staring at the mirror in my bedroom that used to give me nightmares

Like in my dreams I keep asking people who have died

If they would come back to life

And every time they tell me No, I don’t deserve that anymore

No, I don’t deserve that anymore

I like to think I don’t deserve the bad things anymore

Like I am a sculpture that’s been glued to the ground

Where I cannot stop people from staring

What if I don’t want to be seen?

What if I want to be read

What if I want to be felt

For the things you can’t touch?

But they keep carving me down to a figure

They keep painting over the parts where I used to bleed

I cannot write something that is Painless,
Maybe because I cannot exist and be Painless.
Because I do not exist.
And if I exist, I’m not Painless.
My Writing is nothing,
Maybe because I am Nothing.
Because I am Nothing.
And if I’m not Nothing, you’re lying.
My consistent efforts are worthless,
Maybe because my effort is worthless.
Because effort is Worthless.
And my Brain is honest.
My brilliance is battered,
Maybe because I am brilliant for being Battered.
Because I am brilliant and Battered.
And I can’t not be Battered.
There is no need for more reverence,
Maybe because I have capped out my Existence.
Because I am Sick of Existence.
And Existence is Reverence.
There is no love in my bearing,
Because Love means Bearing.
And I have no Bearing,
Because I am scared.
I am scared of my edges,
And scared of tipping.
Because the winds are not calming.
Because a piece of something is missing.
A piece of me is Missing,
Maybe because something is missing.
Because something is missing.
A piece of me is Missing.