I often wonder
How people would react
If they could hear
The thoughts that trickle through
My mind
How often I tell myself
It's my fault
Everything is my fault
You're not pretty enough
Not smart enough
Not talented enough
Not nice enough
Not skinny enough
But I cannot speak
These thoughts
So instead
I could write a novel
Entitle it
Nicotine and broken dreams
And fill it with all my thoughts
It'd be written in blood
And stained with tears
Pages upon pages
Filled with hatred
And self loathing
It will be considered
Tragic and poetic
When in reality
I'm just pathetic
I mean nothing
Not a single thing
I'm unimportant
Worthless
Pointless
Good for nothing
A monster
A monster who gives her love
To everyone else
And saves none
For herself
A monster who leaves
Herself empty
And the empty spaces
Are filled with negative thoughts
That I must write down
To release