Perhaps the reason I hate myself so much,
                        
                                                                 is not because I am a horrible person..

                        but because I have given my love to everyone else

                                                                                                                     and left none for myself..

I bow down my head
straight into the pillow.
I whine a funny sound
and wonder about duty.
Life seems to be all
and all seems to be
nothing but disappointment.

Anointed to be dead
from the first time I was alive.
I strive to show hope,
to be a silent messenger,
but duty seems to hold me back.

The great deep red within
always wants to fight back.
Smack the wrong until it's right,
snack on the souls so easily broken
by a single word that refutes their madness,
while my face turns to a smile.
Walking a mile in my shoes
is being hungry for relief.
Starving for sanity shows my vanity.

if i show you
will you understand?

how i've outlined these arms
vein after vein
where sunlight runs
i see only
lines to trace

i got a barcode on my wrists

scan me for the price
of beauty

i am as expensive
as what people think of me.

do you know what it feels like
to attach your worth
to weighing scales
and waists that never
slim down?

is this why they call them
shoulder blades
to cut through
your skin
to be called
"pretty"

thigh gaps that map
the distance between your legs
to make you
matter so much
you can't stand on your own
feet.

when you walk the shoes
we wear
will you know?

the path to be
called beautiful
is full of
self-hate

and we pay for that bill.

Waiting my turn in
----------------------------- line
for the golden star
from Self-Gratification.

Now to find the shortest aisle.

Mama said I was a miracle from the Lord above,
Conceived from a soft embrace, gentleness, and love.
Tied between two intact heartstrings,
I was their perfect little epitome of everything.
There I was, held together at the wishing well,
Brought down from heaven, but born in hell
Unto the stranger things in life that we look back on with strife
Painting a pretty portrait of treachery, capturing the misery
And surrounded by the impurest mysteries,
This is I, Mommy’s miracle and Daddy’s distaste,
A spiral down the wrong path and pathetic human waste,
My life left in a shattered mess
Since this “miracle” was labeled a child of darkness.

You couldn't wash the blood away
Running to the sink

But the well ran dry
Pulling apart your skin
Trying to hide

The crime that you committed
Alone in the dark

Chalking up all the silly remarks
Staining your soul
Along with your shirt

You had no idea you could cause this kind of hurt

But the point wasn't to cover the sin

The point was to live in it

To breath it all in

Suddenly the sin is you and you are it

And the blood on your hands was simply a hint

At what you truly are
A little old flame
Sitting alone


*eating hearts

We really can't recognize happiness as much as we recognize and name pain or sadness.

It's so easy for us to say that we are sad and lonely yet we can't even bring to admit and say that we are happy.

We can describe and picture pain  down to the last detail yet we can't say a single word about bliss.

Why is that?