I'm an environmentalist;  
                                            
                                             I keep my friends recyclable.

Friends are like glue;
It's always so exciting
when they're brand new
and exactly what I needed
to put something together.
Then when it's completed
they find new ways
to stick around
day after day
until life starts
demanding so much
that more time is spent apart.
Though I had tried to be careful,
I seem to still find them everywhere,
but it really only takes a few minutes of drowning them in water to fix that problem.

I do not want to be here
not a reference to this chair
nor wherever I am
living is too much to bear

I do not want my body
It is beautiful in its time
that is not the issue
it just doesn't feel it's mine

I do not want to marry
they tell me I'll change my mind
but someone who won't touch me
will be very hard to find

I do not want children
this is not a worry of wealth
I simply couldn't do it
as I'm still a child myself

I do not force "giving hugs"
for not all children feel safe
as once upon a time
help for me came too late

I did not ask for this life
nor the things that have been done
but I must act grateful
for the sacrifice of the Son

I do not want to be here
It is God who wishes I live
but hell is worse than earth
so something has to give

I do not want to deny
myself and my desires
but life was not made for me
it was made for something higher

It must be nice to be a cloud; to get so full of what surrounds: all evaporates. It has no say, but then, when full, it relieves the pain. Rain pours down for what can seem, at times, to be eternity. Though it's dark, soon comes light, and the world is full of life.
To be a cloud would be a dream; instead I'm trapped inside of me. Like a cloud, I soak up pain. Overwhelmed, I wait for rain. It grows and grows until it hurts. Still in drought, I wish to burst. Skies turn dark, yet try as I may, my eyes refuse to precipitate. Alas--they do; storms pour down until my heels can't feel the ground. Overpouring flood waters rise; I'm drowning fast in my cries. At last, it stops; I look around--no life has grown upon the ground; instead what's left are puddles of strife to evaporate again into my life.

What a strange feeling
it is to want to die
The joyous surround
always wondering why
someone would refuse
to just choose
happiness
As if this feeling
can be simply
harnessed
Like a mutt on a leash
Easily controlled
Always obeying the
commands it is told
Instead I feel despair
While others say
if I'm just grateful
for each and every day
then somehow I'll be cured
Which is like saying
if a man who's been laying
paralysed in bed
would thank God he has legs
then he'd be walking instead
People look at the
smile on my face
but they'll never know
how much practice it takes
to feel yourself break
drowning
in your own tears
that you hide in fear
from those who would ask
"What's wrong with you?"
while keeping that
super-glued
lie smothered across your face
Because if you tell them
the truth
That you just don't know what
to do
about the emptiness
and the darkeness
How getting through
every day
feels like you haven't slept
and you're starved to death
but you have to run
a race
And what's funny is that
you really are tired
and you never want to eat
Or maybe you can't stop
But if someone asked you
to run a race
you'd stare at them and laugh
in their face
Because you can't even
get out of bed.
So when a best friend's boyfriend
got down on one knee
As much as I wanted to feel it
I couldn't feel happy
So I put on my mask
and played the part
of the ecstatic friend
while holding my heart
to keep it from bleeding
Because blood would show
and no one could know
They wouldn't understand
why
I was feeling so low
that I wanted to
die.

Being wrapped in blankets is a seemingly wonderful thing. You get all wrapped up, things are feeling grand, but one wrong movement and BAM: a swab of fabric unexpectedly covers your face. You squirm and try anything to get it off; to unwrap yourself, but, alas, you cannot--you're stuck.
Breathing becomes more and more difficult until you are completely suffocating. Suddenly, everyone walks away, aloof to what is happening; but wait--here's the catch: there are no blankets and there are people all around.

"What's wrong with you?" They ask.

They wonder why doing anything is so hard; why nothing is enjoyable--why you may be numb to everything. They can't see the blankets, or that the struggle to escape overpowers all joy; that it may be so tight that you've become numb.

They don't understand why you want to give up.

"Get over it." They say, as they walk around, free as a bird, no blankets to hold them down.

You want to take their advice; to set yourself free. You begin to slash at the blankets, only to realize you're only slashing at yourself--but it helps for a bit. Maybe you feel less pain; maybe you finally feel something. For a few moments, you can breathe and put on pretend wings.
Fake wings don't last forever, though. Soon they fall, are stolen, break, get lost--whatever it may be--and they're gone.

You slip back into the blankets.

The birds with real wings start to notice; they want to know why you're doing this to them again.
"You were doing so well!" They insist.

You do what you know, and your scars become too numerous to count.
Again and again you escape and find  a pair of wings, but it never seems to be enough.

You are never enough.

Suddenly, you've got it. If you're small enough--strong enough--the blankets can't contain you.
So food becomes your enemy.
Soon enough, your blanket becomes as empty as you are. You think you are strong as you easily slide out, finding refuge in a pair of beautiful wings.
The birds all stare.

"How thin she's gotten," they comment.
Some are concerned, others jealous.
"She's not healthy," they say.
They take your wings away, insisting you need help.

The blankets are always there, waiting. This time, they've gotten smaller and they swallow you up. As you begin to be forced to swallow as well, the blankets refuse to grow with you.
Breathing is harder than ever.

You realize there's no way to stop this cycle. The blankets will always be waiting, never relenting. The birds will never understand, always blind to the fabric encompassing your face.

There is only one way out that will last forever, never a blanket in sight.
Slash deep enough and the blankets will disappear--and so will the birds.
"I can be free," you think.

Freedom at last.

My lungs are two clenched fists,
Beating against my chest;
They refuse to release;
To give the fight a rest.

Sent a delegation --
A last, desperate attempt.
Oxygen still denied;
Still refuse to relent.

Now desperate for relief,
I raise a white flag high.
The fists demand one thing:
I surrender my life.

Can hopes be destroyed if they are microscopic to the point of invisibility? What if they stop being created altogether?

Maybe hopes cannot be created nor destroyed; they just exist -- attach onto you, like parasites, and, once you realize they have been there, hoarding your energy, they leave you, leaving a hole in your soul.

However, quite possibly, these parasitic hopes do not leave us; maybe, they, like all matter, merely change form -- the hole in our souls becoming a dwelling for this new form: utter despair.

Anxiety and depression
collide within me;
a tornado raging,
stealing my air,
pulling me in.
The debris of my life,
swirling around,
destroying everything
threatens my death.
Fight or flight --
my legs are tired;
my fists are weak.
The storm grows black;
I cannot move.