I wasn't sure where my friends were and why I was considered such an enigma of commitment.
after a communal bowl pass and a swig of strawberry lemonade ***** that tasted like strawberry lemonade tears:
everything that I considered a blessing in my book,
things that I liked about myself
these things became someone else's reason to dislike me.
My strengths became flaws and the things that I used to love about myself became the reasons I wanted to have raw flesh on the insides of my tiny wrists.
I began to doubt and slash every relationship I've made because the amount of betrayal I felt was like when my mom used to make the water too hot in the bathtub and walk away to the other side of my house so that the hot bathwater would boil my skin
and I just had
to sit there
and prune.

I told the truth once to my high school writing class.
I told them the truth
and then my best friend left me
and after my words left the page
and echoed in the air,
just about everyone else left too.

I was alone and I tried to end it because when you're stuck in the hot bathwater and you're six years old and your tears and titanic ice and still no one comes to save you from the boiling hot water,
and somehow in your life you begin to tolerate injustice and pain.

I'm thinking about checking myself into a hospital.
Inpatient treatment.
Pill in a waxed oval cup so that my feelings will regulate and I will start feeling normal like everyone else.
The normal of unrequited kindness and hate hidden inside of a held hand.
I would love to feel like I've overreacting
and I would love to say
I'm crazy
but the craziest part is that in all of this crazy:
I feel sane.
Sane that I can recognize that the only time I write and stab my pen to paper is when I really just  want to stab myself,
stab myself till i bleed blood that won't even soak into the earth,
but forms a puddle that dirties up everyones foot prisons,
containing a checkmark of approval from society.
If everyone just wants to feel loved and so wanted why would you preach hate and expect love in return?
Is it even possible to feel better about yourself without bringing someone else down?
I shouldn't expect anyone to come back to me
when the only one who will never insult me is the
thin white pressed and processed trees
that are bound within a "made in indonesia" binding.
I want to feel sick and I want to throw up and purge my mental illness of depression with some gatorade and saltines
but the only thing that can really cure depression
is the flatline of a heartbeat
and the ones that you loved so much
wishing that they would have loved you more
while you were still around.

My poems are just pre-pubescent suicide letters to myself that I hope someone will read and stop the blade
and put it into butter and spread on waffles instead
of their freckled skin.

I would like to say that I've been doing something wrong so that I can fix it, but when what you are doing wrong is just existing, then besides dying: how can I cater to your needs of disappearing?

How can I bring myself so low into my mental spectrum so that you can glow and feed off of my self deprecation until you have reached the maximum potential of you.

I should probably thank you because my soon to be hermit tendencies will help me stay safe and sound;

I wish I had the courage to **** myself, but more importantly: I wish I had the bravery to love myself instead.