for some people
some things
will never truly go away
and they will be more than scars
on the surface
they will be equivalent
to the craters in the moons
untouchable and there
standing in space
for an almost eternity.

i feel like we've
come a long way
since september
but also in some moments
i feel i'm still meeting you again.
before all words and secrets
and time
i'm back to september,
meeting you again.

this is a reason
why sleeping is better
or doing something mindless
is better.
because any given moment
of too much time on my hands
i'm going to think
and thinking grows ugly quickly.
the mind has a way
to let on to ideas you usually
don't want to think about
and in the next moment
you could be thinking of how to die,
rather than what you'll be doing
in three years.
the mind has a way
to block out the future
and think you won't survive.

it's become apparent to me
my dear, that despite
your words:
"i didn't want to hurt you,
because you're my friend
and i know you care about me."
you know, you are hurting me.
giving me "i don't know"'s.
just tell me already
you're hurting me more
than leading me on.
and i'm starting to grasp the fact
that you may know
but for your sake i cut off
romantic ties.
but god if you would just
stop with the tentative steppings
just please tell me yes or no
don't give into the grey area
please leave it in black and white
and if it ends up splicing my heart
into a few pieces, so be it
because dwelling with the grey
is starting to hurt more.

i've come to realize
that you must not care.
because i hear you talk
through the walls of this house
and i sense collapse.
i'm one step--one final snap
away from screaming at all of you
that i've been the lowest of lows.
and that all of you make me this way.
i'm so close to telling you all
but that would open a can of worms
on my end, and i'll never get away.
i'll reduce myself to tears.
i'll scream at you.
curse at you.
hate you.
i'm six months away
from freedom
i'm six months away
to being able to talk.
to finally get help.
i'm six months away
from my brother
he's always number one.
more attention
you defend him.
you make me the *****.
you make me the enemy.
well ******* all.
i hope my poetry get's published someday
and this poem will wreak havoc in your souls
when you go to purchase the book with your
'beloved daughter's' name on it.
and i hope you read this
and i hope you cringe.
i don't usually wish such ill.
but today
at this time.
i think i'm going to be sick.
i think i want to die again,
because honestly.
i've always been better
but always came in second place.

i have school tomorrow
and i planned on closing my eyes
thirty minutes ago.
but the time continues passing
and i'm either crying,
or it's the ceiling fan above me.
and the most i can say
is: "i'm trying."
i'm trying to fall asleep
but my mind keeps swirling
it keeps churning
and the truth of the matter is:
i may just be giving up.

i may just be giving up small parts of myself.
here and there, everywhere
leaving little signs of my struggle
a trail for those to follow;
an example to those who go down the same path
of existential crises and depression, etc.
a final heap at my defeat.
i wish i could of been turned on to the idea of help
or taking medication
a long time ago
the early stages,
before it all started.
because getting help now screams of weakness
something i don't want to show
in this state even though it's true.
i am weak.
taking medication makes me think i'll lose myself
the state of mind i have that's so clear to me.
and everything will get fuzzy around the edges.
i'll be the one always smiling.
instead of staring blankly at the floor,
or at other people's shoes
or out windows.
the one people talk about
behind my back
"crazy happy-pill girl."
like my seventh grade family and consumer science teacher
that we all used to make fun of behind her back.
depression came at her like a leech.
the rumor was, that her son had committed suicide.
and in eighth grade is when i started
finally seeing all the signs
of no jack, just jill starting to go downhill.
when suicide and harming myself
sparked some kind of appeal.
how wrong, i see that is now.
there is nothing glamorous of cuts
or feeling sad all the time.
or killing yourself.
when i turned in someone for cutting
and bringing blades to school;
after a suicide that sent our school for a spin.
i was shocked.
i had math class with that kid.
kids, that's what we were
we were too young to be dealing with death
with such misery and pain,
mental and physical.
i didn't know it then however,
i didn't know i was too young
i still don't really know,
that i shouldn't be feeling this way.
i should of said something then.
but now three years later
and struggling to hold onto myself
i understand
medication may have made my teacher weird,
but she was much happier
than constantly stewing the *** to her depression
her thoughts constantly on her son's death.
if that was the truth, anyway.
she retired at the end of that year
and i wonder what happened to her.
maybe if i hadn't developed
this feeling of independence
or superiority
to getting help
or taking medication
i'd be better now.
perhaps all this emotion
is because i'm going through my teenage years.
what if it is all chemistry
sorting itself into place
like a puzzle.
what if it's a test to see how far
i'll manage
like making it out of a maze.
and suddenly, i'll be ok one morning
waking up and i'll finally
be at peace with myself.
perhaps this sadness,
is just the universe's way of telling me
that i take up space.
and the thoughts of ending myself
are trying to make room for another
human being who has better potential...
like curing cancer...
i'm sure my best friend would love to save her mom.
or solving world hunger,
thomas malthus would turn over in his grave.
perhaps this is just an illness
that i don't want to believe i have:
depression, bipolar-ism, the occasional suicidal thoughts...
perhaps it's denial.
that because i'm in a low period for a day or a week or two and then it gets better.
perhaps.
perhaps i'm on my way to getting better.
i don't really know.

it may seem like
my poems come quickly
like some factory
turning out enough product
every year.
but poems don't have
to be written
painstakingly slow.
poems can take minutes or days.
to each their own.