she said we'd get through it together
get over him together
but now she's going to a movie with him,
and i am wearing someone else's sweatshirt and thinking of him
and his favorite movie.
it doesn't matter how many pills i take,
they will never change the face i see in the mirror.
sometimes i think i need to just get out of this town,
out of my own little head,
my own little hell.
and i guess i am happy
with him
when i am sitting in her kitchen
and eating mexican food.
but i guess
he will never like me.
because how can someone like you
when you don't even like yourself?
i'm chasing clouds,
endless daydreams,
turning into nightmares.
it's weird
how i feel fine
walking down the street
with jasper
but i don't feel fine
in my own house.
and sometimes, i think this is so normal.
and i go over to her house
and see the way she acts,
and i am reminded of reality.
the tension i feel in this house
isn't how families feel.
and the way my dad treats me
isn't how 'perfect' families work,
or even broken families.
and they wonder why justin never comes home.
she pierced her nose
and she's ruining our plans.
i'm stuck in this room,
the four walls hold stories that i will go to my grave with.
they soak in the things that i can only let out
when i am alone.
sometimes i wonder
why the **** it is worth it
to go through all this pain
for a few moments of illumination.
but then bereket grabs my face and kisses my nose,
my uncle hands me $20 because i want a latte
and my dad won't let me have one.
alex tells me my poetry is beautiful,
and all i can think is,
"if it is as beautiful as you think that i am
then i am ******."
adrian says words
and ben lets me wear his sweatshirt.
justin leaves the garage door open
to never look back;
chloe ****** off her parents
to rebel against her own mind.
sometimes i want to curl up in a ball
and never wake up.
because going to school, to group therapy, to yoga,
why the hell is it worth it?
hours upon hours of an endless loop, brought on by my brain.
the way i feel in my heart
when i think of if i will ever make it,
if any one will ever want to love me,
or like me,
or tolerate me.
if he says my poetry is as beautiful as i am,
then i am ******.