Today is day number 18.
It may not seem that long,
Or that big of a number,
But it is for me.
At one point,
I couldn't make it one day without...
Doing that.
18 days clean.
Tomorrow will be 19,
And then 20,
And then before I know it,
It will be a month,
A month clean,
And free.
No more need for the the blades,
And the blood.
The need and the hunger,
Its becoming weak,
And fading away,
As I'm becoming strong.

At one point,
I had gotten to day 23,
Another point day 35,
Then day 8,
And now I'm at day 3.
I'm counting back up,
And hoping to not be reset,
Not again.

Some days I feel dead inside.
Physically my body's moving,
But I'm just going through all the motions.
My eyes are dead.
My soul is...
Dead.
I am mentally...
Dead.
I'm numb.

If her eyes are dead,
Then her soul is dead,
And if her soul is dead, what's the point in living anyways.
Just a corpse wasting air,
Wasting breath.
Let the girl rest in peace.

Dear Future Me,
I hope things get better. I know they wont get any easier, but I pray that they get better. I pray that theres someone out there in the future thats a version of me to receive this letter. That will mean that I have made it...something that I truly doubt with the way things stand currently.

Dear God,
I know you're out there,
And I need you now.
I don't know what to do,
Or who to turn to,
So I'm turning to you.

Dear God,
Are you there?
If you are,
Please hear me out.
I'm not perfect,
And you've already done so much for me,
But please do this.
Please save her.
Please make her healthy,
Because I'm scared,
Lord.
And I'm turning to you,
Because our worldly things aren't enough.

To the girl my life revolved around
The girl I love to death
And miss more and more each day
With every passing breath
Every time my heart beats
It aches a little more
For your touch
Your kiss.

When you told me I was doing great for a woman my size, I passed you off and told myself that "compliment" had good intentions.
When you called me sweet cheeks I ignored you. A woman like me is used to men like you.
When you told me the stair master made my *** look bangin, I was both honored and appalled.  My *** may be my greatest feature but ****** comments have their place and the gym is not one of them.
When you asked me for my number, you were rude, acting in a way in which no gentleman should act. I told you no. And I meant no.
When you called me a ***** loud enough for the whole gym to hear, you were only making yourself look bad.
When you came up and wrapped your arm around my shoulder and told me you were going to take me out for a good time on friday night, I was terrified and suddenly praying for a **** whistle.
When you insisted I promptly informed you I was lesbian, and to let you down gently, not my type.
When you called me a **** I took no offense, that word has become meaningless. Then you told me it must be a phase, that I just hadn't been with a man like you. That you could change me.
When you said "hop on this **** ****" I was done with your games. I pushed you aside and when you ****** my shoulder back you were the one to end up with their *** on the ground.
Dear namless man at the gym,
When you said you could help me through my phase, you were wrong. Being gay is not my phase. Being straight was.

Momma, Daddy,
Im sorry.
Im sorry Im not the girl you wanted me to be.
The one who grows up to marry a good Christian boy.
Im sorry its not gonna end up that way.
Because your baby girl,
Likes girls herself,
And not by option.
I would give anything just to be normal,
And make you proud.
Your baby girl aint gonna grow up to marry that boy you want me to,
The good old Christian one...
Shes gonna grow up to marry a girl,
And shes gonna fight the crazy Christians every step of the way.
I wish I liked boys as much as girls.
I wish I was the way you want me to be.
But Im not.
And Im sorry.
But Im not going to change,
By anything you say,
Because trust me,
Anything you can and will say,
Ive already said to myself.
But all thats left is say now is...
Im sorry.

To all it may concern: straight people

Dear straight parents,
Thank you,
For making us gays,
And then making us feel like **** for being created,
But hey, you created us.

Dear straight people,
Shut your **** mouth.
We don't care.
Your words aren't going to change us,
No protest signs are gonna change us,
Only God can,
And that isn't an excuse to try and pray the gay away.

Dear straight men,
If a girl likes another girl,
They are not your ****** play toy.
Remove those perverted thoughts from your head,
And learn to control your *****.

Dear straight men,
If a boy likes another boy,
And they don't like you,
Then keep your mouth shut.
If you don't like it,
Then don't be gay.
It doesn't concern you,
And it's none of your ******* business.

Dear straight women,
Just because a girl likes another girl,
Does not make her a ****,
Or a *****,
Or a *****,
But who knows she may be.
But since you're making assumptions like that,
You're probably one of the before mentioned.

Dear straight women,
Ahem "straight",
Go away.
Quit flirting with us,
Because it's annoying and confusing.
Figure out what you want
And try again later.

Dear straight ally's,
Thank you.
You need to procreate,
And make more of you,
Because the world seems to be full of
*******
And biggots.

Dear straight people,
You don't have to like us,
But hating us,
And bashing us,
Isn't gonna make us suddenly go away,
Or quit being gay.
Go back to your prayers that the gays will come to realize if you want,
But I think there are bigger problems in the world
That you need to be concerned with
More than a girl liking *****.

Sincerely,
One who is both a straight and a gay.

Dear Wandering Poet,
I pray you find your muse.
That you over turn a stone where your babbling brook dried up and are washed with the written word.

Something that always seems so welcoming,
But has the bedside manner of an old hag.
Death,
Where is your southern hospitality?
Did you leave it back home,
Were you take your hostages,
Heaven or hell?
You come in a long black cloak,
A face masked by shadows,
Shadows that come from no where,
Nothing to cast them.
You crawl on the walls,
And on the ceiling.
You sit in the upper right corner.
You hide among the trees as your victim drives along the road,
And then...
Crash,
Another one added to your collection.
You're the monster under the bed,
The thing that children fear,
You **** the youth from them.
I have seen you many times.
Without question,
I'm sure its you.
With each time,
I prepare to say goodbye.
But then something changes,
There's a man...
I dont see him often,
Only on special occasions,
And even then,
Just briefly.
I see him nod to me on the side of the road,
Or give me a thumbs up when I walking down the street.
I see you,
Then I see him,
And then you're gone.
But only to return again.
Its not my time now,
But one day it will be.
One day I will see you,
And no longer see that man,
And then that will be the end.
It will be my time.
Something that happens to every person,
But not everyone chooses to accept.

Death is a scary thing,
For everyone.
Its another step in the process of life,
Going into the unknown,
And never being able to return.
There's no opt out of death,
And frankly,
That scares the **** out of me.

The people I owe my life to,
I cant possibly thank you enough.

Depression,
Sadness; gloom; dejection.
Depression cannot particularly be described in words.
With depression you're suffering,
And suffocating.
Its like you're a fish,
In a bag,
With holes in it,
And all the water is slowly draining out,
Waiting for your life to go with the water out of the holes.
Its like you're in a cage,
On display.
You have to smile,
And put on a show,
But its all an act,
And you're dying inside.
Depression is also where you cant move.
You're laying in bed,
And you physically cant get up,
Because all your energy is going into breathing.
This is what depression is.

What evil sin did I commit
To deserve this hell?

If I **** myself tonight
Maybe no one would notice
Everyone who cares
Is either gone or dead
And let's face it
I'm living in hells subbasement
But I can't
And resistance comes with the price
Of my blood and alcohol
As if my mind wasn't dark enough.

We resent pain
And yet we inflict ourselves with it
The pain we can cause ourselves over rides the pain that's been given to us on a silver platter.
We want the pain to end
But we always want to hurt more.

I feel like my blood has been replaced
With alcohol
my thoughts, torment
Being tortured by
Demons
That only I can see.

This deadbeat just wants peace
With the sound of a flat line.

Which way to go
The pills calling my name
A knife
A gun
A rope and a chair
Or slowly with one drop at a time
With poison
That took the name of liquid courage.

I wonder why they called her ****.

I am a quiet ticking time bomb to self destruction.

We all have secrets,
Anybody can have secrets,
But are they ***** secrets?

The ones that you never speak of,
Or the ones that make you giggle,
Or blush,
Just thinking about them.

I have ***** secrets,
Don't you?

"God. You're so ugly without your makeup. You know you really shouldn't show your face in public. You don't want to end up on that People of Walmart website."

Yeah I know.

"No seriously. You look like you've been hit by a bus."

Nope. Not hit by a bus. Just your ****** comments.

"You know they say sarcasm is just a deflection of an internal struggle, it's an underling issue to something bigger. Maybe you're going crazy."

I'm not going crazy. I'm getting my **** together. I'm in college now.

"Yeah, sure."

No. I wake up at a reasonable hour everyday. I take a shower and do my hair and make up. I do my homework and I make good grades. How can I be crazy when I'm getting my **** together. I have my **** together!

"Look at your room."

What about it?

"It's a mess."

So what?

"It's a mess. Just like you are. You are a mess."

I am not.

"You can shut the door and pretend it doesn't exist. Just like you're doing with that mask you put on every morning. Beyond these walls you're a fake. But behind them, they show who you truly are."

And what's that?

"That you're crazy and chaos. Your room represents what's on the inside. You're falling apart."

I am not crazy.

"Not crazy? As if. You've just been talking to your reflection for the past 10 minutes. Just like you have every day for the past four years. Just wait sweetie, one day I'll come out and play."

Being gay is a disease.
A sickness of the mind
And a corruption of the body
It's a curse to be born with
A damnation to choose
And a life of hell
Bestowed to us by others
Carried on by us.

But we lie, hold our heads up and smile because #pride.

You know you're in it deep
When 500 calories a day
Seems like too much to even contemplate.

When you see the number on the scale
Going down continuously
But the reflection in the mirror
Widening.

First your eating is disordered
Then you have what they call an eating disorder
And then there's no eating to it.

You know you're in it deep
When you sit down to a meal
With your family
And you break into tears.

And nobody can even tell.

Dont blame me if I just stop talking,
To everyone.
Dont blame me if I never speak to you again.
Its not my fault.
I cant stand to look at you anymore.
I'm going away,
There will be no more...
No more of me.
Dont blame me,
If when you try to talk to me,
I turn the other way.
I've been hurt too much,
I'm trying to protect myself.

People say that the window to the soul is through the eyes, but the door to the soul is through the words.

Last night,
I dreamed of her.
When it started,
I panicked.
I always have nightmares,
And I didn't want to have a nightmare about her.
But this dream was not a nightmare,
It was beautiful,
And nice,
And it warmed my heart.
I had a dream of where she was mine.
We weren't the age we currently are though...
A prophesy,
Maybe,
Or just a delusional hope.

When asked why I'm scared to get my licenses:
For a multitude of reasons. Most of them centering around my anxiety. It terrifies me. It makes it hard for me to concentrate and I don't feel too comfortable behind the wheel of thousands of pounds of metal without my focus being on point.

Drip,
Drip,
Drip...
There it goes,
Another drop of life.

She is my my drug.
She is my liquid courage,
And my ******.
Someone as bad for my soul as
A blade is for my skin
And yet her
And all these things are addictive
Took me captive
But I don't want to be set free.
Yet I have...

I'm scared.
I feel like I cant breathe.
I feel that I'm suffocating,
Dying.

Dyslexia...
You are a *****.
You are a curse that I wouldn't wish on anyone.

Why must you be the puppet master of letters,
Pick them up,
Move them around,
Make them dance,
And then drop them like an unwanted broken toy?

Why must you send a tornado ripping across the page?
When before you came the letters were perfect,
And organized,
Like they had been placed there by a child with OCD.
Then after you're done,
And you've made your destruction,
The page looks like a bowl of alphabet soup,
All jumbled up,
And almost a hopeless gesture,
To try to put them back together.

But dyslexia,
I fight against you.
I wont let you win,
And let you stop me,
From doing the things I love most.

As I read through my old journal,
I realized what I have overcome,
How much I've learned,
And I remembered why I used to hate reading and writing.
Dyslexia has always been a pain for me.
I couldn't really read until I was in 3rd grade.
I could read,
But its because I saw words like pictures.
I knew what they were,
But I never gave them any real thought.
I would read,
"The cat is brown."
And my teacher would ask,
"What color is the cat?"
And I would respond with,
"What cat?"
Like the lady had lost her mind.
I started my journal when I was in 5th grade.
I had practically only been reading for 2 years.

I'm grateful now,
Of how far I've came.
Before,
I couldn't spell simple words.
I spelt the word remember as remeber.
The word sandwich was sandwicht for me.
Diary was dairy.
Behind was beeheind.
Even so much as the word and had its own difficulties. I spelt it as aedn.
The word sorry was missing an "R" and the word very had an extra one.
Concrete was concreaete.
A purse was a purce to me.
Every time I would write a poem,
I would write pemo and then put a number beside of it.
I wouldn't have a clay model, I would have a klayh modle.
Festival was feastaival.
Favorite was favearit.
Does was dose,
And should was suhood.

Living with this...
To say the least has been a struggle,
But I've overcame it,
And I'm proud of how far I've come.

Is that the lowest moment?
When you don't dare to wear shorts because of the scars that cover your legs.
And then you're sitting there at the dinner table with your family,
And they keep on telling you to eat,
But all you mutter is "I'm not hungry",
When you actually are.
You're starving but your image is worth more than a meal.
You eat a few bites just to shut them up,
And then run to the bathroom to rid yourself of it,
To make sure you can fit into those jeans,
The ones that could stand you losing another 5 pounds.
You get used to the lies of:
"I'm not hungry"
"I ate before I came"
And "oh yeah I'm fine, just tired".
Is that your lowest point,
When the only food you're feeding yourself is lies?

I have a friend named ED.
ED is one of those friends that stick around for a lifetime,
The back stabbing friend,
Who eventually kills you.
ED is my friend,
And he's a friend to many.
Hes a friend of your mind,
A friend of your stomach,
A friend of skinny,
And an enemy of food.
My friend ED,
He will be around for a lifetime.
However long that life is,
Depends on how strong ED becomes.

Your kisses used to taste like love,
But now kisses taste a lot like leaving.
When the past calls,
I will not answer.
I cannot let myself be toiled with delusions of grandeur,  
Sighing at a wilted garden once called Eden.
This garden, being the same one we built together,
Belonging to us both,
Has long been abandoned.  
I will let the wilting red roses die,
Just like the memory of the way your kisses taste,
Just like the way you let our love die.

Your elegance entrances me.
The way you carry your words
the way they roll off your tongue
and melt like butter in my mind.
The way you carry your body
like you own the world
like you own the universe.
I am entranced by your elegance.

I have so many emotions,
So many things going around in my head.
For over 3 years...
Pain.
I've felt like there's been a constant tornado...
In my head...
And in my heart...
Swirling around,
Leaving nothing but destruction.

At the end of the day,
When all is done,
And our love is ******,
Will we go,
And part our separate ways,
With a smile,
A loving departure to everything that was?

The rain that falls from the clouds
is the same water thats flowing from my eyes
at the thought of distance
from you
and tears of envy
for any person who gets to hold you
any person who gets to see you
when I cant.

I wish I could take an eraser to my skin,
And get rid of the outcome,
Of what happened when I took part of a pencil sharpener to it.

Everything happens for a reason,
Sometimes for a good reason,
Other times...
Not so much.
But from each thing that happens,
You learn.
Each experience we endure,
There is a lesson to be taught.
You can take that lesson to heart,
Or you can completely ignore it.
Its all up to you.
But everything happens for a reason,
So dont dwell,
Dont sorrow,
It will all turn out ok,
In the big picture that is life.

If gay people are called fairies,
Can we start calling small, winged, magical creatures, gay?

Fake a smile,
Fake a laugh,
Hide your scars,
And wipe your tears.
The words I live by.
No more excuses.
It was the cat.
You have a cat?
Oh…
I cant do this anymore.
Breathe in,
And breathe out,
But its getting harder.
The pain,
Its getting stronger,
While Im getting weaker.
I cant do this anymore.
Goodbye.

I write my poems out of despair and now that I am happy, my inspiration has vanished. No matter how poetical I may be.

The fear of the mic and the lights, broke me.

Sometimes I feel that I'm in my own hell,
But I know that Heaven is still there.
I know that someones up there,
Watching out for me.
I know.
I have moments where I feel ridiculous.
Like I have someone elses perspective.
I see myself as a silly child.
A monster...
I tell myself,
"Just cheer up."
"Your life is good."
"What do you have to worry about?"
But then I go back to seeing me the way I always do...
I dont want to be like this.

A fiery poet is nothing more than a fire
that took the image of a person
to burn out its creativity
through words.

Its a true burning passion
that only the best have within them.
A flaming soul
Never to be extinguished.

Able to manipulate the flames
and form words
burned on paper
through black ink

They are a camp fire
With food roasted
And stories told around them
Holding memories forever.

The poets are a house fire
Pictures burned
Melted into the flames
And spit out as a rhyming haiku.

They are a candle
Lit by a bed side
During a lovers first time
With the flames flickering on the wall.

A fiery poet is nothing if not the fire that burns the fuel that runs the world.

Do you think its funny?
To make fun of a person,
A culture,
A lifestyle,
That they have no control over?
It isn't cool.
Not at all.
It hurts,
And its unacceptable.
But I keep my head down,
And continue walking,
Let you win,
Because no one wants a fight.

"Whats wrong?"
They ask.
"Nothing."
I say.
"I'm fine."
"You don't look fine."
They say.
"Then quit looking."