dance through the pain
everyone cries to.

have you ever gotten your heart broken?

i have,
it was terrible.

it was so unbearable that i shut it off.

i turned my emotions off.
i gave up happiness to not feel pain.

i couldn't handle feeling.

so i thought,

the best way not to get your heart broken is to pretend you don't have one.

when my poetry paints a picture in your head,
what do you see?

i've  
       been
               feeling          
                           so
                                     u
                                         n
                                             i
                                               n
                                                  s
                                                    p
                                                       i
                                                          r
                                                            e
                                                              d

some times i get so sad

     i
                                 just

b  r  e  a  k                                    
            
                         down

                                      into
                                                         p
                                                              i
                                                          ­      e
                                                          ­        c
                                                                ­     e
                                                               ­         s.

i can't do it.
i can't go on another day, depressed and not loved.

wait.
not loved?
what?
i'm loved?

i'm loved right?

the old light bulb is my mind,
constantly flickering from on and off,

but i can't fix it, not even with my tools.

i don't want be here,
i want to be alone.
i just wanna end it.

am i loved?
wait.
when was the last time someone said they loved me?
i'm not loved?
i'm loved.
i'm loved right?

i'm scared it's dark,
and it keeps getting darker.

where's the light?

was there a light?
i don't know.

thats stupid.
i'm stupid.

sometimes i want to take off my skin.
and show everyone what lies i hid under my complexion.

there is no where to run, to lies to hide behind

just the painful truth

the agonizing honesty i've hidden behind a simple smile.
the words i wanted to speak but never had the courage to say.

our skin is just something we hid behind to shield our real selves and our true form and what we all have under our exterior is the

s a m e.

we are all identical.

bones.
i want to see more bones on my body.
i want to see the way the make crevices and bump out of my skin.
i want to be able to pinch my collar bone.

legs.
i want skinner legs.
i want to have a thigh gap.
i want to fit into a 000 jeans.

scale.
i want you to be lower.

what happens when one star dies, in the sky of one million?

does the whole sky seem dimmer?

or does it stay the same?

stick thin,

i want to be envied by girls
not the envious.

stick thin,

i want to see my ribs bulge out of my skin.

stick thin,

i want my wrist to be as small as 7 year olds.

stick thin,

i want to be as small as my self esteem.

the title caught you didn't it?

you see, suicide is like a book.

you don't seem to care about the rising actions such as
self harm, anorexia, self hate.

you only care about the plot.

but, how can you be so concerned about suicide and want it to stop if you can't recognize or care about the signs that lead to it?

if you don't want our books to close early, why do you;

accuse us of faking,
saying we want attention because we talk about our illness,
not give us support and love?





suicide.



still caught your attention.

has it ever rained blue so long you started to get used to it?

i've gotten caught in a blue flood and right then and there i had to learn to swim.
on my own.
i pulled my self to shore.

has it ever sun shined yellow and you didn't know how to think or act because you've been stuck in the blue rain for years?

i think thats when it becomes frighting,
when you feel more comfertable in the pouring rain
than do you in the yellow sunshine.

maybe thats when it floods black tar,
******* you deeper in the sadness,

but, it is not sadness, it's almost a sad numbness

and tar slowly takes over my body leaving a black thick layer over top of my porcelain exteroir.

it slowly takes over my whole body,

it's slowly getting worse.

it hurts.

what do you think of me and my poems?

sometimes to fix a broken heart,

you have to hurt it even more than the last time

it was in pain.

you're like sunlight, you light me up and show me the way when i'm around you
but
i cannot stay with you for too long or you'll burn me.

14 year old girls in my high school are out here getting pregnant, mean while i cant even get a boy to text me back?

i am not talented.

for i only write amongst the depressed vocabulary
and never touch upon the list of happiness.

my poems are truthful,
they do not lie.

i shan't write about glee,
i should not ruin it,
and i shan't lie.

my poems are identical,
but fraternal.

same topic.
different verse.

but i cannot write about joyous days when they
were days of despair at my hands?

i am not talented.

i've seen things, but all the wrong sights.

i've heard things, but all the wrong words.

i've done things, but all the wrong doings.

when my poetry draws a picture in your mind,
what do you see?

do you see a scared little girl?
                     or
do you see a strong women?

blonde hair, blue eyes,
flat tummy, thigh gap.
redder lips, long lashes.

vogue likes us skinny.
when we're bulimic you say "be yourself."

you say makeup makes you pretty.
but you tell us "don't mask your complexion!"

what
do
we
have
to
do
to
be
accepted?

what happened?
what happened to the sun being bright and beautiful?
when it kissed my shoulders while i ran with my mates
around the playground.

what happened to the times where protection meant wearing a helment?
when i didn't need worry about being a female,
being catcalled or molested.

where my only care in the world was being first in a race to the
school line.

what happened to the times where i could eat and not worry about the calories i'm eating?
what happened to not caring about still being able to fit a fist between my thigh gap.

why did i have to grow up?
i've lost my child-likeness.
my innocence left after i hit puberty.

society says you can't be sad.
s a d.
s
  a
    d
   a
s.

what happened to being able to cry and not judged.

what happened to the times where i actually wanted to live?
see to world.

what happened to me?

why do pretty girls

cut them selves

starve themselves

want to die?

because once upon a time they weren't pretty to you.
they were weren't pretty to society.

why? because we build this dumb notion of what beautiful really is.
blue eyes
blonde hair
long skinny legs
flat chest and tummy.

no

that does not makeup a beautiful person.
nor is it perfect.

i am not perfect
you are not either.

so why do we degrade eachother
if what we have under our complexion is all the same.

we're pretending that we're so cool,
with our terrible dancing and music

but we keep doing what we do.

we were ballistic until the sun rose.

jumping around to the same five lyric-less songs
not dancing, jumping.

our society is messed up,
but for that moment,
that night,

we were okay.

we lived with nothing but our hearts upon our sleeves.
our smiles weren't fake that night,

just 68 thirteen year olds having the time of their life with out their parents for 4 days.

there was no drinking or ****,
we were high off of each others energy.
we were feeding off it.

i felt alive.

i saw the world in colour.

if i told you it was love, would you believe me?

"Just cheer up! you ungrateful brāt!"


would you tell a cancer patient to just get better?

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.

tears ran down my pale dead-like face like an Olympic track race.
standing on the scale with noting but my bare flesh.
no clothes no hide behind.
just me.

at that young moment, i suspensefully realized that i wouldn't be happy until i was down to zero pounds.

at that oppressing second i wanted to get better.

but if i get better i wont be beautiful and thin.

i will not be happy until i get to zero pounds.

Russian dance,
Russian dancer.

perfect movement,
timing jointly along with your group.

charming steps,
do not fall.

long red dresses,
nylon tights under.

impress the elders with your complicated,
yet beautiful dance.

dance like a beautiful Russian doll.