my good friends dog died. she was old and she liked to sleep next to the heater and they took her away and never brought her back. she told me in the first period locker rooms, when my buzzcut was still patchy from trich and unsteady hands and it was still cold outside. she cried and cried and told no one else. just me. no one posted pictures of her dead dog, said goodbyes, made instagram posts about it. she was just gone. we went to her house and her bed was empty and no one said anything. like she never happened. my friend was terrified of remembering her and i was terrified of forgetting her;

in 7th grade it was red, bood red, wine red. short and choppy and red, i hated myself. i cried until it grew, thinking my problems rooted in what was left of my hair. i lied that year, red lips spewing black oil, sticky and hard to wash out. in 8th grade, the summer i was a fairy, it was raven black, green under the redwood sun, too thick bangs covering my greek caterpillar eyebrows. a boy had a crush on me and girls carved words into their ankles, i didnt understand. i dont think they understod either. in 9th grade my hair was long, overgrown, knotted. stained colors i no longer could recognize, hugging my neck and back and shoulders when you ****** me over, i buzzed it off in the end.

don’t rip my heart out of my chest until the swallows are choking on their hallelujahs.

twelve year old girls are popping pills; mommy’s medicine cabinet, vicodin to numb the pain. slitting wrists is out of style so they smoke instead, slow motion suicide that is nothing but a human way of escape. self sacrifice is sin unless you can make it look like an accident.

mommy and daddy think i am innocent but i’ve lost my sense of self awareness, i crash.

babydolls drool on her pillow tonight, their chests are ripped open and their eyes are gouged out. baby lucy doesn’t want to meet little bear, she’s already met the beasts in her mommy’s heart that beats at a rapid speed even when she’s sleeping. mommy is weeping.

it’s my party, it’s my party, i’ll **** well cry if i want to.*

my mind is not twisted, it’s just a little hazy, so i’ve forgotten who i am. no one knows how crazy it can get when your parents toss you around like a rag doll maybe i’ll bleed out all of the drugs that are swirling inside me.

we are always busy trying to pretend we never knew each other, but i haven’t forgotten. at least, not yet. i was everything when i was with you, but you seem to prefer that i become a faded version of that person. life is not something we are promised tomorrow. but we weren't promised it yesterday either.







i'm afraid of the future, of growing up, and losing touch.






none of it matters, though.








nobody cares enough to tell me that i'm wrong when i'm not and lull me into a false sense of security.









goodbye.
goodbye.
goodbye.













goodby­e.

it's easy to become lost within one's self.
picking apart one's skin until
old scars are ripped open.

but you bring me back.
god, do you bring me back.

your lips write me, like a poem.
your hands right me, like an old wrongdoing.

even when my blood has spilled
onto the floor, like ink to paper.
even when i cry, 'i have been alone!'

you bring me back.

scars will heal. but their mark will remain.
i tell you this, again and again.

but when my scars threaten to open,
and time travel to the past
is like an echo- it's so **** repetitive,

you bring me back.
god, do you bring me back.