I always knew I was different.

Although, at the time, I couldn't pinpoint it exactly–
what was I doing that was so contrary
to the behaviour of other young girls?
Surely it wasn't the way I dressed, or the way I looked;
I'd always been self conscious
but even the darkest part of me knew
that on the outside I appeared just the same
as everyone else.

No, it was none of that.

It was my thoughts, my mind, my brain.

It was my inability to form a normal friendship.

Much to my dismay,
it was always the unusual misfits who latched on to me–
with the broken families and the shrunken hearts
and the hole in their soul that I was expected to fix
but I was just as just as cracked as they were
even if I appeared whole on the surface.

And even though I longed to be one of those girls
who belonged to a circle of bubbly friends
that never had to worry about not having enough
people to play grounders or double-dutch,
I continued to clutch on to every bleeding girl
in hopes that something good would come
out of two loners being lonely together.
But the truth was that it wasn't her fault,
nor was it the next strange girl that
followed me one day at recess.
The fault was mine, just like it always was,
because deep down I knew that I was the one
who wanted them.

When I grew older,
I also grew weaker and even meeker
after friendships became broken beyond repair
and the fault was mine, just like it always was,
because I may not have been the one with the
broken family or the strange disease
but instead I suffered from a sickness of the mind
that screamed at me day after day after day.

Then finally one of those days I realized something:
I don't know how to be a friend to these people
because I never learned how to be a friend to myself.
I never learned how to take a compliment
or how to look in the mirror and say
"hey, I actually look nice today."
But my mind taught me many things,
like how to lose 15 pounds in 25 days
and giving up food just so I could weigh
90 pounds and be classified as below average
because hey, I always knew I was different.

But it didn't stop there.

High school came and I worried that I was gay
since I never felt anything when guys looked my way.
And still, to this day, I find myself chuckling
whenever I see a girl bat an eyelash
to a boy across the room
or the perfect couple caressing each other
right outside my third period class.

But I'd be lying if I said that I didn't like boys.
And the truth is that I long for love
but love to me has never been something
you get from making out in the hallways
or two people texting each other
every minute of the day
and thinking "man, this is as good as it gets."

I hadn't realized that before.
And that's why it scared me the first time I kissed a boy
and the second time and even the fiftieth time
without ever feeling anything at all.
I thought maybe I wasn't doing it right,
maybe there was some trick that I didn't know about,
or once again, maybe I just wasn't into boys.

But no.

The truth was that the fault was mine,
just like it always was,
because I decided that love for me
will never be a pretty face
or a kiss in the rain.

Love for me is a tentative smile
with cracked lips and the
faint smell of bile.
It is scars and dusty books and
long periods of silence.
It is two shattered souls with
beaten down hearts that
no longer pulse right.
But beating together as one,
they almost sound...
normal.

And maybe, on the outside,
everything will appear normal.
But I know the truth, and the truth is this:

*I have always been different, and I always will be.

Too long has it been since
ink has flowed from my veins,
seeped out of my pores,
and bled from my heart.
Too long has it been since
pencils have hastily scribbled
down words on the lines of
my numerous notebooks
and fingers have raced across
key after key;
the cacophony of clacks
is like music in my ears
as I listen to each stroke
of a new letter,
a new word,
a new experience.

I want to write about you.

The way you can talk
for hours on end
about your passions
and your fears
and all else in between.
I want to write about
the way your eyebrows raise
in the middle of a sentence
and I don't even think
you realize it.
Or the way your hands move
as you gesture around you
for emphasis and intensity
and you look like you could
be standing on stage
presenting a speech for
millions of people.
But oh god,
I wish I could tell you how
******* cute you look
when you speak.

I don't know what you see
when you look into my
murky brown eyes
but I can tell you that
I could stare at your face
forever without feeling bored
because you are the pearl
trapped inside of an oyster.
You're the luminous moon
and the burning sun
and the stars and the
diamonds and the
treasures you find
under your mattress.

I want to write about
your smile and your laugh
and your bony kneecaps,
and I know I'm only sixteen
but is it really that
ludicrous of me to say
that I want love?
I want to love your
complicatedness,
your deep thoughts
and your V-neck shirts.
I want to love the way
you look at me as if
I'm more than just a
scared little girl
and the way you
laugh at me sometimes
for no justifiable reason
but it's okay because
I'd do something
ridiculous everyday
just to see you look
so happy.

I want to love you.

But how can you leave so easily?
I know that it causes you
no pain to just walk away
when all I ever want
is for you to stay;
to forget about sleeping and
everything else in the world
except you and me.
But I know that good things
come in small doses
so I'll pick up the notebook
beside my bed,
and I'll write about you
instead.

I will start with a hello.*

A handshake, an introduction, a beginning.
Then it will grow,
from an exchange of names
to playing mind games and discussing our fames.

You've always been the talker,
the initiator, the instigator.
And I; the listener, the adviser and friend
to give you a silent **** in the right direction
when the sidewalk comes to an end.

I take no form; no shape, no size.
I'm not the truth, nor the lies.
I am not a human, or a living creature.
I have no body parts, or any features.

But I can think, sure I can.
And I can act as any other man.
The reason why I still exist
is not meant to be a mystery
buried deep inside your inner abyss.

In fact, it lingers right in front of you
and dances before your eyes.
It isn't meant to be shocking news;
or an unforeseen surprise.

Even if you can't see me,
I'm always here as company;
the guest that never leaves.

And even if I wanted
to pick up my shoes,
get up and move,
my nonexistent feet
would stop me in my tracks
and I'd be heading back to your street
fast, fast, fast.

I'd be back before the count of two;
and if you wonder why,
let me ask this question of you:
why is it that we've never parted,
or even said goodbye?

Here is my answer to you:
We are bonded together by super glue,
joined by the brain, the heart and soul, too.
If that sounds confusing, I'll give you another clue;
you live in me, just like I live in you.

I am poetry;
metaphors and similes,
dotted i's and crossed t's.
So fill my cup with the wine of your words,
swallow me whole and be free as the birds
flying through the endless sky
as clouds and airplanes pass you by.

Stanzas and rhymes will flow down your throat
like that of a current, which carries a boat
and takes it to its destination;
the end goal, the aspiration.

They'll travel down with ballads marked in cursive,
with scribbled sonnets and haikus and verses.
Then when they finally reach the heart,
you'll know that it's no longer just words but art.
Because your poems are colours that brighten the walls
by splashing blank canvases and bathroom stalls.

I am poetry;
the pencil and the paper.
But you are the hand, the thinker, the maker.
So paint the world a picture
through your beautiful literature
because your words are your wand
so show us the magic and create the bond
between the fixed and the broken,
the sleeping and the woken,
the written and the spoken.

Pick me up and let me scrawl
down your words and then install
them into the minds of everyone
and they'll be stunned by the
brightness of your sun.

You'll shine with radiance and glory
so keep on telling your story
because your words are your life,
your victories and your strife.

You are the creator, the teacher, the reverend;
but this time, I will subside
because *you are the guide,
*and your words are your legend.

11:22pm

Right now, as I sit here listening to Neil Young and allow myself to ponder over every little thing about my life, I have realized something that I should have became aware of a long time ago:

-I am not defined by my sadness-

Nor am I defined by the amount of times I've been dumped, or failed a test, or made some stupid mistake. I am not defined by my past, and I surely can't be defined by my questionable future. Why does it matter if I'm depressed, or if I **** at math, or if I don't have very many friends? These are all just tiny little fractions of the millions and millions of pieces that make up who I am as a person. And, to be quite honest; just because I'm sad, that doesn't mean that I have to be sad. I am completely capable of being happy if I want to be. I can do anything I want if I truly set my mind and heart to it. But the moment I let my sadness define who I am as a person, that will be the very moment when I lose all hopes for any positive change in my life.

Just because I'm sad, that doesn't mean I can't appreciate really good songs, or really good meals, or really good jokes. Just because I'm sad, that doesn't mean I can't laugh and have a good time with my friends, or discover all the beautiful things that life has to offer. Just because I'm sad, that doesn't mean I can't be happy, right? Because when you think about it, our minds are composed of emotion after emotion; ranging from complete sadness to hopelessness to anger to confusion to giddiness to absolute joy. So no, I am not defined by my sadness. But I'm not defined by my happiness, either.

I have strengths, and I have weaknesses. I make amazing progress only to watch it crumple in a single moment. I can go weeks -months even- without picking up the razor and drawing it across my skin. But the second I start getting those feelings again -those urges to distract myself from the emotional pain of a bad day by inflicting physical pain upon myself- that razor will be in my hand and before I know it, the familiar red drops will be trickling down my arms.

So yes, it's been hard. Life is hard. But if it was easy -if I didn't have to work my **** off to achieve the things I want- then would it be worth it? No. See, that's the thing about progress. When we want something, we get up and we fight for it. It might be difficult as hell but it's worth it because we know deep down that it's something we have to do for ourselves. Even if we make mistakes along the way, we learn from them and keep going until we can finally pat ourselves on the back and say I did it! And that right there, is the best part. The part where we can feel pride on the fact that maybe, just maybe, we are more capable than we thought we were.

It is now 12:06am and I would like to say one more thing:

I am 16 years old. I am still a child. I am immature, inexperienced, and still so uneducated. I have so much to learn, so much to experience, so much to live for. However, I have lived long enough to know that life is beautiful yet ugly, challenging yet worth it, infinite yet extremely finite. In that sense, I am terribly old. I am a teenager; a young adult. With 16 years under my belt, I should be able to say that I have been living life to the fullest. But I would be lying to myself if I did. I am so old, but mostly, old enough to know that I have done wrong. Old enough to know that I shouldn't have been letting my sadness define me.

And I am still so young...

But mostly, too young to not have hopes for a better future.
Too young to not have realized yet that *everything will be okay.

It seems that every time
I'm with you,
I feel inspired.
And of course,
with inspiration
comes the utmost desire
to do the one thing
I love greatest;
and that,
is to write.

But how do I write,
when words can't even
begin to describe
the way you play the piano?
Your gentle fingers
stroke each key with such
delicateness
and I want to cry because
your hands could never
cause harm the way
mine do.

How do I write,
when not even the
world's greatest camera
could capture the beauty of
the nighttime sky and
all the other outside wonders
that look so much more
radiant when I'm walking
right next to you?

A poem cannot justify
the fact that I used to
stay indoors when it
poured down rain
because I was scared
of getting wet.
But with you,
I'd walk through
a hailstorm
and that would be
completely fine
with me.

To be honest,
it should scare me
that a girl who
loves words could
be so speechless.
But I am fearless
because being with you
has taught me that
sometimes
I don't need to think
and I don't need to see.
I don't need anything
but my heart,
for every pulsing beat
will tell me what to do.

And now,
as I frantically search
for something to say;
an incredible form
of literature
that would take your
breath away,
I realize that
I don't need to.

Because
how do I write,
when not even
the smartest human
on earth
could explain how
when I'm with you,
my demons turn into
angels?

I need not say more
because sometimes
words just aren't
enough.
So hopefully one day
I can close my mouth,
open my heart,
and show you that
I do indeed
care about you,
too.