I've joined the ranks of those who never sleep, those who never sleep, those who live on coffee and cigarettes, who listen to acoustic yellowcard and dream of what happiness really is.

there will always be someone
prettier,
smarter,
nicer,
happier,
better,
than you.
and I don't yet know
how to accept that.

When your best friend tells you that she hasn’t eaten anything today, don’t laugh along with her like it's some kind of contest, hold her hand and tell her you love her and she's beautiful

When your sister says that the neighbours cat got a little nasty, don’t roll your eyes and shrug along with her, pull her close and tell her about the time she taught you how to ride your bike and remind her that you never want to be an only child

When the boy next door tells you that he fell during gym for the twelfth time this month, don’t giggle and tell him to stop being so clumsy, give him an ice pack and let him tell you about all the doors and stairs that hit back until his throat is raw and he feels a little less alone

"The last girl that was here still has the scar on her knee" he says, laughing between words, grinning at some joke she can't seem to find.
She feels her smile go brittle and start to pull down at the edges.
She can feel something inside her break open, letting the cold sink into her bones.
She knew she wasn't the first, and she doubted she would be the last (no matter what he told her) but it was different to hear it coming from his lips.
To hear she's just another conquest, another notch in his belt, being reduced to something less than a person, a number.
A part of her knows he didn’t mean it, that those bullets from his mouth weren't meant for her, that his laugh is directed at someone other than her.
But she's the one sitting in his lap, shirt on the floor, heart in her throat. Praying she hasn’t made a mistake, that he will still look at her like the world starts and ends in her eyes even after she buttons her shirt.

Let him spit his words down your throat
Relish in the feeling of them sliding down like razor blades
Tell yourself that you deserve this
That
This is what love really is
It is pain and suffering and loving someone so much that it doesn’t matter how many times they spit venom in your face
Because they still hold you and tell you that they love you at night
Sometimes
But usually only after you've let them use your body and called it passion
Tell yourself every morning that this is love and this is what you need
Never think you deserve better
Let yourself start to fall apart at the seems from trying so hard to keep them happy
To change your hair
Your clothes
Your favourite ice cream
To change yourself
Let them destroy you and call it love
Because that's what you deserve,
Right?

But her body isn't meant for him to use
And her soul isn't something that’s optional
Its all or nothing with her
And he has yet to figure that out
And until he does
She tries to piece herself together
As fast as he tires her apart

funny isn't it?
how we try so hard to be someone we're not,
and yet at the same time attempt to find ourselves.
funny isn't it?
how we expect those around us to be truthful and honest,
and yet we ourselves distort the truth time and time again.
funny isn't it?
how we wish on every birthday cake and shooting star for a perfect life,
and yet all we really want is a little happiness in this dark, lonely world.

because when I see you I still remember the way your touch made flowers blossom between my hipbones

He told me no words could ever amount to my beauty
I told him to try
He stumbled and stammered and finally gave in
"There's something truly extraordinary about you, no words will every compare."
and that day I learned how to love.

In school, they tell you all about the monsters that hide in dark allies and creep around corners
But they don’t tell you about the ones that smoke cigarettes outside the mall,
the ones with eyes so blue that you could swim in them for years and never see land,
the ones with too black jeans and too sweet cologne
They don’t tell you about the ones that pierce you with a look so deep that you never think twice when they take your hand a lead you into loud parties with too much smoke and too many people
You never think  twice when he slips his hand down your shirt because you've never been looked at this way before and my god this feels like love
no.
No.
It isn't until you leave the tenth message that hour and you feel tears slipping down your face and you can't stop the hurricane roaring in your chest that you start to think
And ******* I wish I could stop

once I saw a girl,
with long brown hair and red wrists.
and I thought, how could someone so beautiful be so troubled?
once I saw a girl,
with deep blue eyes and no strength left to stand.
and I thought, how could someone so weak ignore what will make them strong?
once I saw a girl,
with scared wrists, slumped against the bathroom door.
and without thinking,
smashed the mirror.

I couldn't tell you
what perfection is.
For every time I try,
my mind closes its windows and locks its doors,
frightened by the concept of flawlessness within a single person.
I could, on the other hand, list the many things perfection is not.
perfection is not twirling a blade between your fingers, wondering where it will leave its mark next.
perfection is not buying shirts 4 sizes too big to cover up what we think is there.
perfection is not tilting back the bottle again, promising yourself that it is the last time.
perfection is not the face I see staring back at me each and every day.

Because god I can feel the words crawling up my throat and I can't breathe and a part of me is okay with that and a part of my doesn’t want to breathe if it means this pain will only get stronger
And I cant seem to think of anything but your finger tips and your voice and my god I wish I didn’t because it only makes the hurricane in my chest get louder and it only makes my lip quiver and my hands shake
And there's so many words, god so many words but they never fit together right and I could never use enough of them to describe the way the sun dances in your eyes and I wish to god I could and I wish to god I couldn’t
Because you're the one part of myself that I actually liked but now I'm just a cluster of hard edges and unfinished drawings and I don’t know how to make the hurricane stop and I don’t know how to take your voice out of my veins
But I want to god, I want to and I want to go back to when you held my hand and the way your finger tips felt against my skin
And when I wanted them to be rough and harsh because it would make it easier to keep you out if you were everything I didn’t need but my god they were soft and warm and they made the oxygen leave my lungs and they drowned out the noise in my head and it only made it worse
Because now I don’t know how to block you out of my veins when you're already the air I breathe
But I need to because my god your eyes could bring down stars and your voice could end wars but you're so much better than me and I can't bare the thought of watching the light leave your eyes when you figure that out
And you're so good and pure and I'm darkness and the monsters in my head and my god I would ruin you and my god you’ve already ruined me and I don’t know how to breathe
And I cant breathe and nothing about the way you look at me is pure but that doesn’t change the way your shoulders look as if they could carry the world and yet it doesn’t matter
Because you're so much better than me
And my god I'm darkness and monsters and I don’t want the monsters to touch you because you're the greatest force of good I've ever met and I couldn’t bare to let my darkness taint that

I wonder how it feels to know that the couch you're sitting on is the same one your best friend made me scream on last night,
And I wonder if it would bother you that it's his hand that is ghosting across my hip bones now
It's too ******* bad if it does because you tossed me aside and I've made myself forget what your smile looks like and how your hands felt against my stomach, and I've cleared you out of my head
And replaced you with him.

I used to think I could fix the world
With bad metaphors and similes
But then I learned that everyone was trying to do the same thing
And suddenly it was less about fixing the world and more about
Fixing myself
Until I found that
I can do neither particularly well.

I don't think you quite understand
temptation
until you've broken out in a cold sweat
trying to ignore the call of
that which makes you forget.
until you've gouged your palms
with sharp nails
resisting your stomach aching for something;
anything.
you don't understand what temptation can really do
until you're standing on the edge
waiting for that final breath.

She wishes she could feel her hipbones through her jeans
But instead she rubs the bones in her wrist
A silent reminder of what she is working towards
A reminder of how amazing it will feel when the purity of her bones shines through her skin
Because bones look so fragile
But can bare so much before the break
And that’s all she's ever wanted to be
Delicate on the outside and strong on the inside
But somewhere along the way
She's gotten the rolls in reverse and
Suddenly she has become so weak on the inside
While becoming a mess of blurred edges and too wide lines on the outside

I could probably write beautiful things, things that would make your throat tighten and your eye sight blur, but the words, the words that I need to make that happen, always get stuck.
Stuck in the limbo that separates my thoughts from my speech. It's like trying to remember a dream, all fuzzy edges and bits of feeling. There's no clear end, and no clear beginning. Sometimes you end up in the middle and sometimes that’s the worst part. Not being able to remember the order, the order of words, of sentences, of thoughts.
It's looking left before you cross the street, then looking right, then having to look left again because you can't remember if there was a white truck coming or if it was just the glare from the sun.
It's touching a hot stove when you were three and jumping back crying at the fire racing up your finger tips, only to repeat the action an hour later because you've already forgotten that red means hot.

Because it doesn’t matter how black my mascara is or how red my lips are I'm still only made of water
and sometimes water gets spilled
and sometimes it doesn’t rain again for weeks
and sometimes that’s my life
and sometimes i wish i was made of *****
because then at least someone would notice when i was gone