I'm sorry that the pores that litter my untouched skin don't drip normalcy on everything my shaking hand tries, and fails, to grasp at.

I'm sorry that I'm not the mirror that you wished me to be.
when you looked into my eyes you hoped to see yourself,
but all you saw was broken pieces and sharp edges.

I'm sorry that you asked for galaxies and stars and I provided you with a black hole,
consuming my being in on itself,
leaving you cold and lifeless.

I'm sorry that I don't fit the mold that you've sculpted everyone else into,
I guess I'll remain a lump of clay,
unique not like the rest but also cold and quiet.

Maybe one day,
I'll stop being so sorry.

have i forgotten what it feels like to be needed?
i'd rather gouge my eyes out  than look in the mirror,
and it's not the reflection that disgusts me.
it's this small person inside of me,
hiding.
too much of a coward to actually be passionate,
too big of a ***** to actually fight for what i want,
to actually stand up for myself.
i want to **** the person inside,
not myself.
i love myself. it's the doubt that lives inside me
who needs to die.
he whispers in my ears
that i need to cave in again,
that i need to fall apart.
if i need him gone, i may need
to hurt myself too.

why, when asked who the most important person in their life is, do people say their mumdadsisterbrotherhusbandwifesiblingcatfriend? Why do they answer that it is anyone except themselves? because let me tell you one thing;
it's you. it always will be.
it's your heart that keeps the blood pulsing through your blue-river veins. your lungs keep you breathing, no matter how painful each breath is. your legs move you from place to place, although, really, you never even want to be there in the first place. your arms have held loved ones while they have wept and your fingertips have produced transfixing music that has caused them to weep. your liver has kept you alive on the nights where you tried very hard not to be and your stomach has demanded that you really must eat even when you try to tell it, and yourself, otherwise. your lips have brought fireworks to those of others and your eyes have been a glowing fire through the deepest of nights and darkest of times (even if you think they're a terrible, in-between sort of colour)
it's you. it always will be

We are critical.

We find flaws in
everything we see
because nobody
wants to write
about perfection,
even though sometimes
we wish we could just stay
staring into that
unblemished surface.

2. We are never satisfied.

We live our lives upon
mountains of
scrunched up
bits of refill and
ideas we gave up
trying to
express.

3. We never forget.

We write words about
eye contact made
three months ago
that we replay over
and over in our minds
even though it
stopped
being relevant.

4. We are fickle.**

Our emotions flash
from one
to the other
like strobe lighting that
disorientates us
until we feel as if
the world
will never be still.

5. We are exposed.

We don't know how
to keep our feelings
to ourselves so
we'll write them
down for
you to find
'accidentally'.

6. We are vulnerable.

We wear our
hearts on our sleeves
and won't lift a
muscle to fight back
if somebody tries
to break it
because we thrive
from the pain.

7. We will never stop.

We will never stop
feeling and
we will never stop
hurting,
we will never stop
breaking and
bleeding and
loving
even though the cycle
is endless
and we know what's
coming next.


We are addicted
to agony,
but we agonise
for the art.

As if everything around me didn't depress me already,
He wanted me, and i wasn't willing, nor ready.

His face made my teeth grind with hate,
I should've took his life, but now it's too late.

He held me down and I couldn't breathe,
It didn't matter what i said, he wouldn't leave.

It wasn't until he got what he wanted that I got away,
That was long ago, but I dream of it to this day.

One of the worst experiences of my life,
And when it's brought up, I strife.

For that man to die wouldn't be a shame,
Yet, I never told anyone, haven't even mentioned his name.

No one would believe me, no matter how hard i try,
So, I fold my hands, and pray that he dies.
                            *
I'm already insane. Yes, indeed I am mad,
So, perhaps another visit from him wouldn't be so bad.

I could show him my knife,
and cut off what ruined my life!

You're sitting at the kitchen table,
And the girl you love is cooking breakfast,
Or maybe it's a boy.
At this point you only care about the love that they give,
They bring in the plate but they are falling,
They keep going
Down the rabbit hole or down to hell, maybe to the center of the earth, but
they didn't really fall.
they just never existed.
now picture this:
The water is boiling and you can't remember putting the kettle on.
You walk upstairs and the lamp by your desk was on.
It's day like these you feel less alone,
Is there hope that someone is here that loves you?
But you remember turning the kettle on.
You remember because
It was to hear something besides your own breathing,
And you remember turning on the light
It was to see yourself for who you really are
And that is alone.
But it's okay to be alone
because no one is ever truly

alone

For some reason untold
I feel nothing when I write these words
They used to be my refuge
When the world was crashing down
Yet, for some reason
They don't mean so much now

For some reason
I read the things
That pours from another's heart
How these words are keeping them
From being torn apart

For some reason
I wanna let it go
what was its meaning?
I no longer know
For some reason
I can't understand
My poetry dosen't mean...
Anything

I figure
What's the point
If my words
No longer
Want to be heard

I'll still write
I just won't share
It won't make the diffrence I always dreamed
If no one cares

For some reason
I think it's time
To give up my rhymes
Set down the pen
And when I pick it up again....
Maybe they'll listen

There are so many other girls with perfect hair and skin and eyes and compared to them, I am a walking joke. I am an unfixable calamity of dark grey circles under my eyes from staying up all night because the thoughts in my brain always seem to bloom at the worst times. I am the weight of a thousand words that sit at the tip of my tongue but refuse to come out. So please don't ever tell me that I am flawless because that word is so far away from what I aim to be. At the end of the day, I want to be so incredibly flawed and real and incurably human but still beautiful because of what is inside my heart instead of what sits on my skin. I have slowly become a whirlwind disaster of running away from your toxicity. I am a hurricane of good intentions gone wrong but I can promise you that you'll never find a perfect person that could love you as imperfectly as I ever did.

I look at you and I see half-finished poems and words that don’t exist, your eyes are like indigo oceans I keep drowning in but somehow I don’t mind not being able to breathe.  I wish I knew more about why you are the way you are, what terrifies you the most about yourself, and why I find it difficult to catch my breath when you look at me as if I am a stolen daydream. You make up for a lot of things, really, like going through fourth period half asleep because last night it took me three hours to stop thinking about you. You make up for that, and everything else. You are made of electricity and good intentions stitched together with a voice that could shatter a million hearts, and I am just a lost soul wondering why I trust you with mine. And I do, I do, I trust you with my stupid old heart, and I want to memorize every single corner of yours like the back of my hand. I want to know how a heart like yours could love such a wounded one like mine, but maybe that’s what love is, sacrificing perfection for something tragically real. I look at you and I see fluctuating potential, like the morning sun peeking out behind tired gray clouds, and how sometimes that has to be enough. Ever since I met you, my heart has remembered how to beat, my hands have remembered how to hold, and you love me enough to make me forget how much I don’t love myself. Maybe you are temporary and maybe you’re an illusion, but I still cling to the hope that maybe, this is why I held on until now.