I'M OPPRESSED BY AN EDUCATIONAL SYSTEM WHERE CODES OF CONDUCT GET DRILLED UPON A BLACK INDIVIDUAL BECAUSE OF HAIR COLOUR THAT DOESNT QUITE MATCH THEIR TINT.
TO EXTENTS WHERE THEY CAN FORCE YOU TO TURN BACK ON YOUR HUMAN RIGHT TO LEARN.
WHEREAS THE SAME WHITE INDIVIDUAL WHO TRANSFER THEIR HAIR COLOUR FROM BROWN TO BLONDE CAN SIT AND RECEIVE AN EDUCATION WE BOTH PAYED FOR.

it's getting bad again.

the kind of bad that makes death look attractive.

WHAT IF I TOLD YOU HOW SCARED SHE IS. WHAT IF I TOLD YOU HOW SHE WATCHES THE WAY SHE WALKS, BECAUSE THE LAST TIME SHE FELL IN LOVE, SHE HIT THE GROUND. AND SHE WOULD OFFER HIM HER HEART BUT IT'S BEEN EATEN AT AND STORED IN A DOGGY BAG AROUND A CORNER WITHIN HER CHEST - AND SHE CANNOT HELP BUT ALWAYS FEEL LEFTOVER. WHAT IF I TOLD YOU THAT SHE'S SCARED OF FEELING.
BECAUSE IT DOESN'T FEEL HER BACK.

"She was a genius of sadness,
immersing herself in it,
seperating its numerous strands,
appreciating its subtle nuances.
She was a prism which through sadness
could be divided into its infinite spectrums..."

the terrible unfairness, of how there can be no healing without pain.


- haunts me in my sleep.

SO FILLED WITH PAIN AND SADNESS, IT STRESSES THE THUMPS OF MY HEART BEAT  SO LOUD IT COULD WAKE THE WHOLE HOUSE.

i did the best i could,
for who i was,
at the time.

I giggled my way out of every bad memory.

I pretended nothing hurt.


Until it didn't.

BUT NOBODY TOLD ME THE FUNERAL NEVER ENDS.

IT'S BEEN ELEVEN YEARS NOW, AND THE CASKET'S STILL LOWERING.

*"LEAVE ME HERE MOM. LEAVE ME HERE. I'M DEAD TOO."

and i guess i'm just asking,
if all the things you said to yourself, appeared on your body,
would you still be beautiful?

daddy's little disappointment.

i made two cups of hot coffee and watched as yours turned cold. you're not here.
and all i can think about is how you should be.

And there I was.
Reading the side of my Coca-Cola can.
It says; to share it with dad.
So here I am.
Offering the can to a grave.

(If only death understood patience.)

God.

Why did I not learn to treat everything like it was the last time?
Because my greatest regret is how much I believed in the future.

But I was young.
So therefore; naive.

So ******* naive, I tell you.

Told the ground I wouldn't take no for an answer.
But they buried you anyway.

WHAT IF IT NEVER GETS EASIER?

HOW MANY CUTS DOES IT TAKE TO CONVINCE YOU SOMETHING HURTS INSIDE?

HOW DEEP SHOULD THE BLADES SLICE BEFORE YOU SEE IT?

HOW MUCH BLOOD UNTIL I'VE DRAINED IT FROM MY SYSTEM?

I did not understand the depth of sadness, until i started drowning in my mind.

And it seemed like loneliness was a friend, that visited much too often at night.

And, somestimes i wished, it wasn't only my hands that wiped the tears from my eyes when i cried.

do you always find it this hard to love yourself?

And as much as they tell us to be ourselves.
That what?
"Everybody else is taken."

God knows who told them that everybody else was who you wanted to be.

What if maybe, you'll bump into some girl at a coffee shop, and she'll apologize continuously about spilling on your cloud white shirt, the one you just bought a couple of days before, and you'll grab her silky soft hand to assure her its okay. Then she'll offer you a cup of coffee "on the house" or maybe even a cuppachino, and you'll gladly accept, amused by the sparkles in her eyes, and how her smile lights up a room, and you'll offer her a seat, even pull her chair out, like the gentleman you are, and you'll talk and talk and talk and talk. Talk about stupid stuff. Random stuff. About work, or how she loves chocolate ice-cream, and you'll laugh, laugh 'till your tummies ache, and before you know it, you'll realize you're in love.

And I'll be here.
Waiting.
Only to realize,
the girl you loved,
wasn't me.

when last have i had a 3am kind of conversation,
with my star like emotions scattered all over the darkest parts of me,
mimicking the sky,
my moon like persona that always returns back to hiding me away.  
when last have i felt safe enough to let somebody in,
to not have visions of my vulnerability being tied to the bed after he locks the door behind him,
his voice like some sort of broken record that keeps on repeating that
"it's gonna be okay."
when last have i had a shoulder to cry on that isn't my own,
for my neck to stop worrying that the tear filled sea on either side won't get waves big enough to drown me.  
when last okay,
when last has it felt good to be me.