I tell my professor that I'm struggling with depression
He tells me he didn't notice.
Like it is something I am supposed to wear on my arm
If I am not covered in cuts or darkness
It's not happening.
I've learned
When someone feels like they don't have choices
They resort to the best way of surviving
That they know how to.
For me, that's faking it
Plastic face, ripped in half
I am tearing myself to shreds
Behind clear eyes.
What you don't see is the scars on my chest
That I get from scraping my skin with nails
Any perceived blemish must come off
I hide the holes with makeup and clothing
Dressed to impress.
What you don't see is the nearly infected patch of skin
Under my hairline
Because I can't stop reopening the wound
I keep it concealed.
My body is not a canvas on which I paint
My compulsive habits and depressive symptoms
For all to see.
I survive the best I can
And it almost comes off as if I'm thriving
Sometimes I forget there are days
When moving my limbs ***** the life out of me
I fool myself into thinking I'm fine
Until I get hit with a tidal wave of triggers
They always seem to appear in threes
I keep trying to arrange the broken pieces
So I look pretty
Isn't that the best thing that a woman can be anyway?
Or so we're taught.
I tell my professor
"I'm trying."
He thanks me for explaining things to him.
Submitting to my own guilt
For speaking of pain,
My mouth forms a small smile
After all, this is the way
I have been taught
To survive.

Dear self,
Tonight is hard.  
You are being flooded
With memories and dreams
And your soul is heavy
With self doubt and destruction.
Your hangs heavy
With thoughts of disgust
And the emotional scars
Sting just as much as the physical ones.

But hey

You are tracing old marks
In your skin
Please, Do not repave them.
Remember all the nights like these?
Your lonely tears will wash away.
And while I cannot promise you that tomorrow
Will be better
But it will be new.
Every path we make
Will diverge into unknown territory
And I promise
You will smile
Again

While the shadows of the world formed ogres
Yours formed angel wings stabilising me
And my heart was all that you could see
Even when I thought that my world was over
Or when I saw periods of being non-sober
You stood by my side as rugged as a tree
Even when I was as buzzed as a bee
You'd only ever held me much closer.

You ever have someone
You can never be friends with
Not out of hatred
But out of love.

A failure to disconnect emotions
From any sort of contact
Between one person to another
And remain intact.

I have pushed a great person
Out of my life
For the exact same reason.

I can just not disconnect
Emotions for someone
And call it friendship...

So there's one great person
In this world
That I can never be friends
With....

Out of love.

on this pale yellow post-it note lies 10 hurriedly written digits and i've never felt more secure, yet so unsure all at the same **** time

Momma please come and hold me close  
Don't leave me here, turn out the light
You're comfort is what I need most
Just lay with me and wrap me tight

Because somehow the arm you hold me with
Is an impenetrable shield that keeps me safe
For just the presence of you next to me
Scares away all the fear and hate

What is being beautiful?
Is being beautiful about the greatest figure?
Or who has taken the most pictures?

For me,
Being beautiful has less to do with looks,
and more to do with heart.
The way kindness seeps in at the start,
it would transform people to a work of art.
Beautiful isn't in the physical appearance,
It isn't about acne and clearance,
it is the one that you hold dearest,
As though their heart is of solid gold,
so the saying that is quite old,
'Beauty is in the eyes of the beholder',
so when models give of a cold shoulder,
Or the way celebrities form boulders,
From the bodies of their fans,
so amongst the waving hands,
I can truly say, not everyone is beautiful...

Beauty doesn't stem from the eyes,
It stems from a beautiful heart,
Beauty doesn't stem from a disguise,
It stems from a kind finish and a kind start.

Every path laid,
Is another path made,
A different pathway,
To part ways.

They only saw her dimensions
As though there were no curves in her edges
Treated her like she was just a box,
Picking at her the way they would pick at locks,
Trying to steal her internal content,
Showing her how society circles bent,
That if she hadn't followed trends,
There'd be no light at tunnel's end.

So thorns were pricked of the rose,
Leaving her completely exposed,
As though she was part of shows,
Because people only saw her looks.
Roses wilt and wither
And what made her her, vanished with her.
She became a walking advertising sign,
For what it meant to colour within the line.