My skin itches.
It's trying to crawl away from me,
out of this room
into the bathroom or kitchen or any place with a blade
because I am not empty,
but my mind is playing tricks on me
and everything is an addiction.

I am something like destructive.
I am lies and hunger and razors and headaches.

my favorite hellopoetry user no longer writes on here
i don't know if she writes at all anymore
i don't know if she's even alive

why do i still write on here
why do i write at all
why am i even alive

i need to stop treating my mind like a punching bag
i need to take rests and drink water
stop staying up late at night
digging through the past,
knowing i'll never be a first kiss to anyone
-it shouldn't matter, it doesn't-
but do you think about her?
(she was prettier than me)

you want to take a look into my self-image?
my mirror is not even cracked
(i would hate that symbolism)
but **** do i look distorted.
I'm always too fat and my acne is impressive,
my hair is too flat or frizzy or greased,
Every look there's something dissatisfying
but god, sometimes the way you look at me...

not even that, I guess. I don't need another's affection
to forget about my own distaste (though it helps)
but mainly it's just the moments I am smiling and with the right people
that I forget about the distortions of my body and my face

sorry i'm not pretty enough to be delicate
(sometimes my hands shake but i still don't look fragile)
i'd rather look like nails and a hammer anyway

I ******* hate it when people say "scars are beautiful"
because what is ******* beautiful about
2am and rummaging through rooms to find something sharp
desperation clawing in the back of your throat
because you can't breathe this time until you bleed again
What the **** is beautiful about the emptiness you feel
when pressing a razor to your skin
(and there is nothing behind your ribs, you stone-cold *****)
What is beautiful about the moment you finally 'wake up'
and realize what you've done and who will have to see this
("No, I'm fine, No, it's not your fault it's not your fault it's not your-")
What is beautiful about the next morning
or the next week
the next month
when the mark is still there
to ******* remind you
(you can't run from the past)

Tonight we saw shadows in the darkest corners of our eyesight
but we got to sit in the middle of the intersection
and the night wind has left me with goosebumps still on my skin
and the cold but refreshing air trapped through my hair
and I can't believe the world has ever felt small
when there are so many stars to look at.

every mattress is an opportunity
every location
every patch of grass or mud puddle
i could kiss you anywhere
-it's june 16th i guess and my teen angst has a mind of its own
in the sense that i'm ridiculous
but also trying to use it as validation that i might just need to take care of myself
or maybe tell a doctor that i feel like lighting my arm on fire sometimes.
I'm convinced it's normal (because it is)

today i dreamed that you were ******* me
and then i fell back asleep and dreamed i was ******* myself
and this girl down the hall was saying "it was just middle school"
as everyone looked at her scars and I was thinking
wow I'm glad I thought it through and only cut myself on my legs and hips because who would want the attention of ******* wrists
and it really was just in the past,
then this girl named maria tried to relate saying oh her boyfriend accidentally cut himself when he was drunk trying to cut pizza
so the blonde one said, "that's not really the same thing"
and I continued sitting on the floor, thinking
who the **** are these people
thinking her scars seemed awfully small, does she ever feel embarrassed that they're not bigger,
thinking wow why did I think that, that's not appropriate at all
but if they were on her wrist anyway-
and self-harm isn't cutting pizza
or comparable with scar size
self-harm is just the embarrassing middle-school *******
we're stuck living with
and when you can't see the scars,
it's still in the back of your head when the girl with the big glasses says, "wow that's so sad"
and the girl says,
"no it's okay, it was all in the past."

that's the sad and tragic thing about people who feel compelled to write things down -
we spend a lifetime trying to figure out the right way to explain what it felt like to look into his ******* eyes

and all he did was look through mine

okay my fingertips are glass and i've only used the edges for myself
but while i'm tracing your back I am careful to keep from pricking
and sometimes when we kiss
it feels like we connect and float and glide
and you know they say dancers are really sensitive to movement,
we know how every adjustment means something
every swoop of the head and blink of the eye
and every time you touch my spine
the dancer in me leaps into meaning,
because the way your head tilted is art enough to put to music

i know i already wrote two poems tonight,
but i just remembered how
last night at 2am we were sharing a tiny blanket
and when i started to slightly shiver or shift,
you tucked the whole blanket around me
(five minutes later I heard your teeth chatter)

sometimes my eyes droop and my vision gets blurry,
my lungs lag and my flesh gets tingly,
sometimes i feel my heart beat in my throat
and every time i touch my skin it feels like it's peeling off
sometimes life feels like a dream
and i can't tell what is reality

she said i better get some sleep
but how could i choose rest
when climbing into your bed and running my hand through your hair
was an option

hello, it's later than i wanted it to be and i haven't tried to close my eyes yet
and i've been holding in **** for the past couple minutes,
i just think i think a little bit too much
about what you might be thinking about
i'm not sure i make sense
i'm not sure i like myself.
my wisdom teeth are really poking through my gums
i keep touching them with my tongue and it's later than i wanted-
i'd like to lay in grass under the sun holding your hand,
sorry for the cliche
sorry i'm a stereotype
i'm not sorry about any of this
i can't wait to hold your hand again
i can't wait for the sun
when i think about it,
when i really look around and appreciate..
how is anything ever boring

It smells like
pizza
and
***
and I am still a
pizza-less
******.

When I'm dreaming,
all I feel is the stage beneath my toes as I pirrouette into the spotlight,
and all I want is to leap forever
because I'm crying out there,
putting all of my panic into my palms as I slam them into the ground
again and again
this is all of my frustration
finally letting out
and I can feel your lips here
on the edge of my fingertips.

******* *****, taking *****,
having to **** but just wanting to kiss
daydreaming of ******* and ******* and you
this world is gross and beautiful

I want to look so fragile as I lift my entire body off the ground with just the palm of my hand
and I want you to see my ribs as I fold myself in half
and I want to point my foot into another world because
maybe there I am beautiful.

I can't stop myself from rolling over my shoulders and wanting to arabesque every time I need to reach a hand
please don't stop me from tearing my muscles for this feeling that will never let me go.

I'm never really sure about anything at all
and this might not be a poem
and I might have never even learned what poetry is
but I think I write my life across a stage every time I dance
and I have wiped more tears across my face with every grand jete
just trying to pick up all of my pieces
that I shattered myself
because when I was still just a girl
I thought it was fun to take a hammer to my skin and bones
(and sometimes it still is)

For a while I thought I could get better.
I thought
the wind would pick me up and let me glide.
I guess I was wrong.
I usually am.
The day got dark, and my mind slipped away from a closed fist,
bits flying while time slowed and the beat of my heart thumped around in my chest.
It usually happens like this.

your ******* ******* hips
i'll never sleep
because thinking of you
keeps me licking my lips

I wish I knew what I wanted to say
But all I've got right now is:
it's ok you might be leaving soon
i'll take any amount at all.
i'm afraid a little bit,
and i'm not sure that will go away,
but you can have me regardless
to fiddle around in my ribcage
(just leave a little for me when you go)
(and i know you favor questions, baby,
but tuck away a few answers for me please)

I want to be the deep end of the pool when I lay down
You could dip your toes under my rib cage
I want you to be able to grab me by my collar bone
Pull me into your chest,
Let me disappear completely in there.
I am tired of my presence
I am tired

getting trapped in your time zone
never sure of how tired you feel
all the way on the opposite coast
but I guess you don't need to know
they'll tell you you don't need to know
"at least not right now," they'll say, "you don't need to know."
but occasionally
you worry
you'll never know

Please can we be king and queen of the night streets
and our thrones will be our bike seats
and the moon will outline our smiles.

light forms from fixtures in the empty parts kept deepest within us.
(i think we're afraid to share,
scared of growing dull if we give too much of ourselves away)
i have just a bulb in me,
the type of light that shines in a basement (kept tidy, though).
i don't prefer lamp shades or light covers
i thought it'd be beneficial to show my light off,
to project
to present how bright it is in there.
a whole life of keeping my bulb uncovered in a world kept hidden deep in their own chests
has left me little
by little
less bright.

who's to blame, really.
and who's smarter for it

all this babbling on about purpose
yeah right,
like any of us have a reason to be here/
we just exist and take up space
and do what we do
but not always well
and i just want to be good

whatever happens,
-i will remember the time we hiked off the path and laid beneath the trees just before a storm
you took my glasses off and the leaves blended together
(we weren't sure we'd find our way back)
-i will remember the time you casually tried to find a sturdy log to kiss me on
pretending the plan wasn't to get me rustled in the dirt anyway.
on the walk to the car, you tripped me into your arms
i giggled, you smiled
and you looked so great with the sun shining through your hair
-i will remember holding back "i love you"s in your bed sheets

i don't know my own name some nights
when i'm sober and by myself and slightly chilled, exhausted
it's mine but i don't feel it's mine
i don't feel like anything at all
but tonight I'm not sure
feeling nothing used to be bad
but being nothing feels like it might be relief

start a conversation//
i care a lot and that shouldn't make you nervous//
i talk so much, god, just let me listen
//
and then slip your hand under my shirt and whisper some small talk
unbutton my pants while you talk about the weather
i'll tell you that i think rain smells nice when you lick up my stomach
and i'll run my hands down to your hips as i ask you what you ate for breakfast
"I had peanut butter toast," I'll say,
finding your zipper
\
despite how much i love our conversations now,
you can always talk a little more about yourself

Do you know what my bones are wrapped in?
Uncertainty.
And I am waiting today,
uncertain as always,
if you will come or  not,
and I hope you will,
but I know if you do,
you will not have much fun.
I will wrap a blanket around my head, hiding my face from any light,
and you will wrap your arms around me and I might even shrug you away.
Today
there is no point.
This morning has made me realize that people will always keep secrets
and there are no permanent connections anywhere
and the factors that make you LOSE
are much greater
than anything that makes you win.
Dreams don't have to come true,
and people will settle
for a life they never wanted,
but they'll pretend it is good
that they are happy,
when they are working for nothing but to die.
I'll admit, sometimes I wouldn't mind dying.
Only because I've already had my 10 seconds of fame in this village,
and ladies reassure me that that was it. That is all there is room for.
That is all I am good for.
My dreams are the static of a tv set.
waver
waver
gone.
I am empty today,
and it is so silly that my biggest concern
was not having grabbed your **** yet.

God, life can be ******* pathetic.

i'd like to be dangerously balancing between
that look in your eyes
and
the way you lick your lips
right on the verge of
"maybe I'll do this"
as my hand slides down to your hip

i can feel d i s t a n c e
it's an ache in my bones,
creaking doorways,
noisy joints. stinging knees and ribs every door frame and welcome mat
i don't know what i want except a certain proximity

my skull and bones remember my crush
when I pushed the nails through my tongue
and told me to "wait for it
wait for it
wait for my love
because I don't know how to feel without cuts."

I haven't talked since
and my bones are still shattered
and only my own life can save itself, I know
I am trying.
I'm trying to balance love and hate
but I can only remember the slicing of my flesh
when hate licked up my chest and bit through my lips
my hair is tangled and covering my sight
the only escape is through my own mind.

I am trying and hiding
and hiding
and hiding
and ripping my bed sheets apart
so I can suffocate in them
but I never let me because
life is beautiful
and I can be beautiful,
but my spilled blood is not.

ordinary things feel super extraordinary when you're looking into his eyes and he's smiling at you and reaching for your hands

I wonder what it's like to be the skin on your wrist,
wrapped so tightly around your veins,
clear and soft and smelling of you.

i guess we have no future
(at least you know)
so i look outside of the driver's seat window
my hands on the wheel
passing trees and leaves
(everything here will be tainted with your memory)
and i found myself wondering what the hell is the ******* point
if you're already planning to leave me behind
(i almost cried, it stung)
but tonight as i stood to leave, you said
"don't go. just one more minute? don't leave me yet"
so i laid back down and kissed you again
and i change my mind,
there doesn't need to be a ******* point to any of it

i'm sorry you can't hear me when i scream "I love you" in my head
i'm sorry i'm the type who seems to always write things down instead

tell the boy to wait up
you've got to sneak in a kiss
before he forgets the color of your eyes
and that once he thought they were pretty

do you ever panic about how average you are
how predictable it all is
how plain
he's probably bored already,
bored that you're even insecure about this,
cliche & boo-*******-hoo, he could be bouncing around with bigger ***** but instead he lets your pathetic lumps slightly jiggle as you ride him and occasionally make eye contact
and you call it love,
(you know it is)
but how could he love someone so boring.
maybe if you took matches to your tongue, there'd be more spice in bed if he kissed ashes
but it's been done
maybe if you shoved a gun down your throat,
he could watch you gag on it, let him imagine it as his own ****,
you'll pull the trigger just in time to give him blue *****,
you swear you've seen this already in a movie or something
maybe if you show up with hands shaking,
you say you want to run constantly, you want your whole life to be running away, but you have nothing to run from and no where to go and all you've been dreaming of is running next to him -
it's romantic, they say
it's suicide
it's a ******* trigger warning
and it's all so painfully average and unoriginal
i could cringe

daydreaming of *** and actually liking the idea of making deals like "you clean the dishes, i'll do the laundry and take out the trash"

sleeping bags and back seats
and blue eyes that keep looking at me
trunks of cars and waterfalls
cemeteries and big rocks
ice cream joints and dirt paths
and anywhere that you're at

you are capturing my mind

but it's always been my worst of nights that I write my best
the nights that I want to cut myself and lick my blood off of your chest
the nights that my eyes suffer and sting because they don't get rest
nights I miss the sunset because I was looking east when I know it's west.

I could be camping but instead i'm staring at my wrists wishing they'd blush
(ya feel me?)
I just want to be where the trees are

my mind is static
is it possible to go blind by trying desperately to keep my eyes open
so they can reassure my brain that I am okay
I am okay
okay
okay
I don't feel very okay,
and my eyes are not seeing anything okay, either

I feel so light-weight and gleaming
I feel like I know how to love
but I don't exactly know what love is
(I don't think I really care)

I'm glad you're you and I'm glad you're here
and I hope that you like me even when I am honest

I could hear my parents talking about me.
I don't like that.
I don't like the way you looked so
disappointed
when I cried, either
or that I cry
or that my stomach bunched into ruffles
when you took my shirt off.

"I don't know why I get so sad sometimes," I whispered.

my life will be much like a mountain that I am too afraid of. Afraid of tripping and losing grip and falling all the way down to where I started. I know I can't depend on anyone to catch me there at the bottom, so I'll have to rely on the concept of hope - that it helps.
I want to be successful
but it's a slippery, slippery ***** and a fast drop
and one big hell of a chance.

My full stomach is a message on an answering machine:
"Honey I'm just checking in to make sure you made it home safe, don't forget to call me back.."

I tell myself to eat to make it to tomorrow
(I say, it's okay, it's really not that much),
in reality I just lack self control
And I don't have a home phone line baby,
My voicemail box is full
Let's lose 10 pounds this month and
Still
Manage
To
Smile