Is this how I want to leave my legacy?
But is a legacy worth leaving
Once it’s been tattered and crumbled?
Is that all I am now? A worthless mistake?
Is this even worth writing?
Or am I just further consuming in the terror of “I”?

A fiction novel of a young girl and OD –
All the reasons, hatred, and pain behind it,
The scars they kept tearing open
So she never stopped bleeding,
And the devastation it caused to those who cared –
Would naturally impact the reader.
But when the reaction goes more like,
“I wish I was her,”
It’s not exactly normal.

And then I wonder.
Do any of you actually deserve an explanation?
Is it worth my last moments when you’ve given me few?
When your moments have simply minimized my life
To the putrid carcass it’s become of late?
Manipulation and lies.
That’s all I was worth to any of you.
…When you acknowledged my existence, at least.

Who is the stranger my reflection resembles?
Because I don’t recognize the hatred in those eyes.
She’s dead to herself and most of those around,
So we might as well make it official.
Agreed?

A stranger within and without, so withdraw.
I guess that’s what happens when you spend four years of life
Being lied to, lied about, and lying the pain away.
When you aren’t drinking it away, that is.

It’s when you wake up every day, wishing you hadn’t,
Wondering why you haven’t fixed that yet.
When the people you care for the most in this world
Just lie, manipulate (or try to, at least),
And use your life to no visible end.
When they cheat with you, or try to cheat with you,
While you weren’t enough for them in the first place.
When you know the truth, but you know you’ll never hear it
Because you’re no longer more important than an illusion –
One of power and control that precedes a human life.
When people don’t care,
And when they do, they don’t tell the truth,
And they sure as hell don’t show it.

This is who you become.

And this is all you want.
And you blame no one but yourself.
Because you can’t pinpoint where these desires come from.

No, people don’t want me.
They want to do me.

And to those of you who don’t believe a word of my wants,
I hope you find my lifeless body,
And tears of blood stain your face
Like the knives I’ve dragged across my skin.
But unfortunately, I’m not going to give the satisfaction
Of you fazing me that much.
Because, clearly I’m waiting around for something,
Whatever it may be.

I hope you got what you wanted.
I hope it was worth it.

Can you feel me now?
Do you hear me now?
Will you see me now?
Will you bleed for me now?

I dare you to stop me.

I’m not scared of leaving this world.
But I am scared of leaving before I tell how I actually feel,
When I’m not releasing the infuriation I hold so delicately within.
Is this how I feel?
Or am I lying again?
Do I really plan to do this?
Or am I just reaching out for anyone who cares?
Do I really believe this about those in my life?
Or am I creating a story for an anger-filled poem?
Is this what I really want?
Or is this just easier than telling the truth?
Who knows,
Since no one tells it.
Maybe someone should actually talk to the girl sometime.
Maybe she’ll tell you how she really feels
Beyond this blistering, blunt falsehood.

If you come clean, so will I.
Because somewhere deep down,
That reflection’s not me.
Somewhere deep down
I still believe.