1.)    I don’t want you to think I’m crazy

2.)    People see your pain and they see an opportunity to play the good guy. The hero in your twisted little fairytale. The public finds out you’re chemically imbalanced and the magic spell is cast! Like Cinderella’s dress, their contempt for you transforms into love and admiration. They now feel the need to let you know they are there, they care, they pray for you. When they can’t even remember your name.

3.)    Expression of my depression is not a cry for attention. You asked me how I was and I’m really tired of using the word “fine”.

4.)     “Suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem” **** THAT and all the same psychobabble ******* that’s recycled over and over again. If you want to help me tell me what you think. Tell me how you feel. Don’t google mental illness and memorize the wiki page I already did.

5.)    Self-harm gets enough publicity already. If you want this trend to go away stop drawing hearts on your wrists, wearing orange ribbons on your chest, and telling people you love them but only if they hate themselves first.

6.)    And while we’re on the subject what’s this obsession with kissing scars? You're not the lead singer of some punk band you’re my boyfriend. Kiss my lips or kiss my ***

7.)    If I wanted another therapist I’d buy one

8.)    What if you think I’m weak 8) What if I am weak 8) You’ll know I’m weak

9.)    How am I to explain to you what’s wrong with me when I can barely admit it I have a problem in the first place.

10.)  I want you to know my favorite songs, Why I hate my name or how I once ate 50 starbursts in one sitting. I want you to know the good things. I want you to know me. I don’t want you to think I’m crazy.

Stairs fly as straight as hawks;
Or else in spirals, curve out of curve, pausing
At a ledge to poise their wings before relaunching.
Stairs sway at the height of their flight
Like a melody in Tristan;
Or swoop to the ground with glad spread of their feathers
Before they close them.

They curiously investigate
The shells of buildings,
A hollow core,
Shell in a shell.

Useless to produce their path to infinity
Or turn it to a moral symbol,
For their flight is ambiguous, upwards or downwards as you please;
Their fountain is frozen,
Their concertina is silent.

Your words unfold like a map
marking the journey through a single day,
made from the comfort of my chair.
You wield your vision like a weapon,
bold slashes with your pen
leave me vanquished in your mirror.

Now the room lies still,
the single pulse your hard-bound words,
taking shape the way a fence crawls across a winter field,
wielding life like a paintbrush,
your pictures more exciting
than the margins where I’ve played.

moved to allpoetry.com

When the girl, I loved, died,
I locked myself in her room
while her parents were in Arizona.

I went through her things
and found
**** photos;
A few where she seemed
ashamed
and a few where she
liked her body.
She had a gummy smile
and in others
she looked down at her *******
while having a blank expression.

I found empty
alcohol bottles.
Cheap bottles of wine
and a bottle of red,
stuffed with tissue paper.

Under her dresser
I found an unopened
letter she intended to
give the boyfriend before me,
where she admitted
to being ***** as a teenager
and how she hoped
it wasn't too much
baggage.

I threw out the photos
and
alcohol bottles,
but not the letter.

I don't know why but I kept it.
I occasionally read it,
because it's her,
and I love her.

I told my friend
and he called me a
Halomaker,
because I made sure
she was remembered
as an angel.