wanted advertisement:

hi.
i'm that girl
the one who is going to **** up everything for you.
hey, how are you?
yeah i am casually always taken in, loved and cared for and then rejected.
are you interested?
i am always the cold choice.
the one without a jacket.
i am the one you will not pick.
over and over and over and over again.

i want you to choose me but why am i even a choice in the first place?
don't give me a second look
don't give me that mysterious pandoras box of hope: i don't want that feeling of escasty when my phone lights up and its you.

don't look at me again, your going to fall in love with me.
don't let me **** up your life, your redundant life of typos and empty phrases. i am a change. you don't want to change, do you?

its exhausting.
always being that risk.
always being that choice.

i don't want to ever hope again.
it always ends up in heartbreak.
i don't know why i ever expect anything else.

hi.
i'm that girl
the one who is going to **** up everything for you.
hey, how are you?
yeah i am casually always taken in, loved and cared for and then rejected.
are you interested?
i am always the cold choice.
the one without a jacket.
i am the one you will not pick.
over and over and over and over again.

i am an unwanted advertisement. don't give me a second glance, you might just ruin your life, and choose me for once.

time for a group photo!
short girls in the front.
thats me.
constantly being classified by my body and constantly being included only to be excluded.
I feel like I'm back in my Jewish day school being made fun of because the cost of my mothers chemotherapy overrode my need of the checkered uniform skirt that all the other girls had.
I spent my new years eve in an emergency waiting room watching "I love Lucy" reruns with my babysitter, waiting for the doctor to come out and say that my mom was still alive and doped up on morphine in the back room, watching spongebob and telling me to
"hang in there, "
because i'm a trooper when really I was sitting next to the adult chaperone on every school field trip because no one wanted to sit next to the girl whose mom was dying and her family was too poor to buy her a new checkered uniformed skirt.

I tried to tell a boy one time about what its like when your mom is bald at your bat mitzvah and that the black boy named Stephen in your 5th grade homeroom told you that your mom should die from cancer and his friends laughed while the girl went home and read books because the characters actually listened and never changed no matter how many times the book was opened.

he just said : didn't that happen a long time ago? how does that even matter anymore?

and I agreed because love is begin and love is a spell that makes you say "this is okay" to the situations which are the least of being okay.

Wow: I'm more depressed than I thought I was.

Writers are naturally narcissist. Hear my words: I will talk about my work for hours if you let me.
So maybe I'm done sharing.
Maybe my words are just a desperate cry for help when the only one who can actually help me is myself.
Sometimes I feel like my self confidence is just my self justification for my existence and I'm really just made to die so that other people can read my wet, soggy journal and it could maybe save them like it destroyed me.

My energy is waving and I want it to ceasefire so I can go under the quiet calling of the lake and be still to where no one can hurt me and I'm too ****** to feel the temperature of the water.
I want to be so ****** up that for once in my life I can fall in love with myself instead of the boy with the red cup,
beckoning me to the back of the room

I want to know that my reality is not so different than yours and when I feel like you like me: I know that you do and I don't have to shower-thought-contemplate that.
Love should be like the earth beneath your feet, you never have to check if it is still there because you should already know it is always going to be there fro you.
I'm worried for myself and I'm spinning to that point where I'm sitting on that rock again outside the farm and looking at arts and craft scissors and wanted to craft my way into a heap six feet under.

Wow, I never realized how depressed I was.

I want to break down but I want to stay strong and keep my emotions in the jar that everyone makes fun of me for carrying around because my life is your joke and the punch line just keeps on getting better.

I wasn't sure where my friends were and why I was considered such an enigma of commitment.
after a communal bowl pass and a swig of strawberry lemonade ***** that tasted like strawberry lemonade tears:
everything that I considered a blessing in my book,
things that I liked about myself
these things became someone else's reason to dislike me.
My strengths became flaws and the things that I used to love about myself became the reasons I wanted to have raw flesh on the insides of my tiny wrists.
I began to doubt and slash every relationship I've made because the amount of betrayal I felt was like when my mom used to make the water too hot in the bathtub and walk away to the other side of my house so that the hot bathwater would boil my skin
and I just had
to sit there
and prune.

I told the truth once to my high school writing class.
I told them the truth
and then my best friend left me
and after my words left the page
and echoed in the air,
just about everyone else left too.

I was alone and I tried to end it because when you're stuck in the hot bathwater and you're six years old and your tears and titanic ice and still no one comes to save you from the boiling hot water,
and somehow in your life you begin to tolerate injustice and pain.

I'm thinking about checking myself into a hospital.
Inpatient treatment.
Pill in a waxed oval cup so that my feelings will regulate and I will start feeling normal like everyone else.
The normal of unrequited kindness and hate hidden inside of a held hand.
I would love to feel like I've overreacting
and I would love to say
I'm crazy
but the craziest part is that in all of this crazy:
I feel sane.
Sane that I can recognize that the only time I write and stab my pen to paper is when I really just  want to stab myself,
stab myself till i bleed blood that won't even soak into the earth,
but forms a puddle that dirties up everyones foot prisons,
containing a checkmark of approval from society.
If everyone just wants to feel loved and so wanted why would you preach hate and expect love in return?
Is it even possible to feel better about yourself without bringing someone else down?
I shouldn't expect anyone to come back to me
when the only one who will never insult me is the
thin white pressed and processed trees
that are bound within a "made in indonesia" binding.
I want to feel sick and I want to throw up and purge my mental illness of depression with some gatorade and saltines
but the only thing that can really cure depression
is the flatline of a heartbeat
and the ones that you loved so much
wishing that they would have loved you more
while you were still around.

My poems are just pre-pubescent suicide letters to myself that I hope someone will read and stop the blade
and put it into butter and spread on waffles instead
of their freckled skin.

I would like to say that I've been doing something wrong so that I can fix it, but when what you are doing wrong is just existing, then besides dying: how can I cater to your needs of disappearing?

How can I bring myself so low into my mental spectrum so that you can glow and feed off of my self deprecation until you have reached the maximum potential of you.

I should probably thank you because my soon to be hermit tendencies will help me stay safe and sound;

I wish I had the courage to **** myself, but more importantly: I wish I had the bravery to love myself instead.

i have tried an infinite amount.
Put in effort.
and effort
and effort
and effort.
acting like it wasn't engraved on the inside of my eyelids,
like it wasn't the only thing that mattered:
that will ever matter.
like it was the only thing that made sense:
it is the only thing that makes sense.
It's been eleven months
and I can still go back to that moment
and pull out that floppy disk- knowing that every drop of blood or salty tear had been rightfully shed so I could live until that moment.
the moment I met you.
I felt what people search their whole lives to feel.
A look in their eyes that shuts down your brain and all that matters is their pattern of freckles and the ingrown hair of their eyebrows and the pools of their rich brown eyes.
No  P A S T
No  F U T U R E
Just A L I V E
Just  L I V I N G

So why are you so afraid?
You are aware if the short period of time we have on the earth?
You are so focused on your job of portraying others that you have such a limited grasp on yourself.

Just give me an hour.
Let me know you.
Let me discover you.

You can push out this fate all you want.
Ignoring it and shutting it down with excessive monologues and broken treble clefts but keep in mind, my star:

fate is the one show where the curtain doesn't close when the lights go dark.

I expected to see you again.
Really, I did.
I didn't want to- yet every day I hoped that fate would give me a wave of his hand and say:
okay: todays the day.
the sadness will fade
and you will create my happiness, so I don't have to anymore.
I don't have to act like I'm happy when I'm not.
I don't have to be someone I'm not.


I saw the side of you today.
Its funny because I've been waiting for the moment when you would bump into me around a corner and yet
I wasn't expecting it.

Things always happen when you least expect it.

You smiled and laughed at something.
I don't even remember the last time I was that happy.
You looked so happy.
Your happiness radiated onto me, and then once the stream got into my consciousness I froze.
I was no longer sunny and warm.
But cold.
Freezing, actually.
I couldn't move my feet.
I couldn't move my body.
I wasn't in control anymore.

You were.

My eyes welled up with tears and before I knew it I was outside.
I wasn't breathing the same air you were anymore.
I was away.
I didn't know how I got there.
Not at all.
I didn't know that you had this much control over me.
That I actually cared about you this much.

To be honest: it really scares me.

It was so unexpected.

I don't think I've ever been in love
I've fallen, though.
and by fallen I mean into a dark pit of months of agony,
waiting for my phone to glow in the instant gratification of our generations definiton of "love".
i'm horrible at being patient.
like really.
really
b.a.d
I've realized that if I do what I always have done : I will always get the same outcome so something obviously has to change.
I need to relax and enjoy my crafts
and enjoy the sun
and listen to Elton John
and not base all of my happiness on a member of the opposite ***:
thinking that a kiss from them will really fix all my problems.
because will it?
will it bring my brother back home and help subdue the religion that consumed him?
no
will it help all of the seam ripped threads on my broken heart somehow mend together again?
no.

If you could selfishly change three things in your life to make it perfect, what would it be?

I've heard many answers: most of them being

"You"
"You would make my life perfect"

But two weeks later with tear streaked pillows and an absence of makeup removers I need a break.
I can make my own life perfect.


Low expectations are better days.