I write this with little force,

Autocorrect guiding my words;

Inhalers keeping this curse at bay,

Blades making blood flow.

I think of now with little hope,

Without a saving grace;

I think of now, a pitch-black room

With no one there but my demons.

Flurry of words seem to gush out of me,

As I hyperventilate;

Grief grows larger as they don't notice,

As these fingers grow numb.

I don't know how much I'll last,

Might as well collapse,

No matter how much I say I'll die,

I'll just live some time again.

But now it's worse.

What is, truth?
Why are people obsessed to find its meaning?
For all I know, truth is a box;
Mysterious, tempting, yet rare.
Truth is what's real.
Then if it is so, claiming to be "real",
How come mine always become inconceivable?
Some I know would say I'm not me,
That I've changed, if not everything, almost all.
Believe me, step back and I'll tell you:
You never lost me.
I am deprived of this, "truth".
I am unable to voice out my pleas.
I am not privileged by my kin, the people, those surrounding me.
I am plastered to a wall that is constantly vandalized by their thoughts, their "truth":
"He's fat, he's horrible, he's helpless, he's different, I can't bare to understand him."
They say that they're my friends, that they have my back.
How would I bare to believe that if all that they see is my insecurities?
I just can't see why I am like that:
"He's intelligent, he's dependable, he can help".
I guess that there is to me.
I guess it's because I always have a smile on my face.
I guess it's because I always crack a joke.
I guess it's because, I can't cry anymore.
Unless, if they would know my truth, my secrets.
I just can't scream hard enough to say help,
I just can't see the sunshine I am supposed to see;
Everything I see is a tint of black.
I just can't say what there is to say,
That yes, I was ***** by my father when I was 8,
That yes, I am molested by my cousin, up until now,
That yes, I am ****** when they think I am not offended,
That yes, I am not as happy, as you think I am.
I can't face it all.
I can't face the hard-hitting question that they'd all ask;
"Why did you not fight back?"
To this day, I do,
Now that I have myself in my absolute lows.
Now, that I try my best to pick and hold myself together.
The only voice, the only truth, I can have, are these words I write,
Far from them, far from reality.
Until the day I collapse and feel nothing, I would be the bird in the cage, bound.

interesting to see
how i grew up and came to be;
what i wrote, how i spoke.
no one euphemism fits
yet i shall try to describe:

like a reptile that shed its skin and kept it,
like a keepsake, which at one time was cherished
but now left to weather by the windowsill.
like seeing the scars
from the wounds you know you dealt yourself,
ones you still call beautiful despite all the horror.

it's the closest to seeing how angsty and in your head you were,
how you felt everything, even the nothing,
how you so desperately wanted to crawl out of your skin,
and you still sometimes do.
you read those words and feel like
those words were never yours.
but they are.

at least now you know you've changed;
not where you wanted to be,
but farther than where you once were;
and that, i think, is beautiful.

A secret I'll confess,
Disgusting as it is strange;
Making me feel less,
Begging for immediate change.
Cut 1; the beginning of a tragedy.
Cut 2; pity for me, begging for you.
Cut 3; the words that echo horribly.
Cut 4; losing hope to live for.
Cut 8; the age that daddy chose to touch me.
Cut 12; when Cousin made me play a little game.
Cut 15; the hellish years I've lived, enduring.
Cut 28; filled with sorrow and hate;
Cut 37; out of vain, illustrated heaven.
Cut 50; the cutting and the bleeding get blurry.
Cut 68; I question my fate.
Cut 77; the innocence you seem to deafen.
Cut 82; I know it's more than blue.
Cut 95; seems pointless to strive.
Cut 100; I live on, but I know I'm already dead.
Wanted you to help me, but never could.
Wanted you to save me, but never would.
Madness I tried to stop and still is struggling:
Now everything that makes me happy seem more depressing.

It's nice you have your friends;
It's nice everyone's got your back.
It's nice people think you're kind.
It's nice you're part of the team.
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*Too bad I can never be that person

Deafen the path with birds of song;
Confuse them of the road they'd ought to take;
White noise fills the barren room;
Pirouette in the dark halls;
Make the world yours in an instant;
Walk upon the forsaken way;
Trample your psyche with all odds;
Empty the casket with song;
Recite your mantras,
Drink your fill,
Fog thine images with deceit;

Hide the sadness with forced laughter.

Fog thine eyes with tears;
Drink your dose of aspirin,
Recite your curses;
Empty the casket with pleasantries;
Waltz upon the forsaken way;
Make the fault yours in an instant;
Pirouette into the blissful morgue;
White noise deafens the bustling child;
Confuse them of the songs they'd ought to sing;
*Deafen the truth with howls of jealousy.