“are you happy?”
and all I can do is grind my bones and pinch the pale skin of my wrists and say,
“what kind of person would I be if I wasn’t”
But if I allowed myself to be real
I would tell them it hurts more than it should
because I’m far too invested
in this tangled mess of a romance novel
to ever be happy again.

I became a different person
the day I was tricked into letting myself
become vulnerable enough to be
revised and rewritten,
and you would never guess
that I used to be head over heels in love
with change and spontaneity
until I gave myself to the first boy to call me
beautiful.

Don’t let the idea of isolation
frighten you away from self exploration.

Don’t believe what they tell you
about needing someone to lean on
because I can scrawl the truth
on your eyelids deep enough
for you to see the reality of trust,
and you can’t rely on anyone
to make you a better person.

*Being content isn’t enough and if you’re not infatuated with who you are than change what you’re doing, not who you’re doing, cause they’ll tell you whatever makes you stop crying long enough to take everything you have.