Dear  School,

I hope you’re doing well even though you made me absolutely hate myself and made me feel like if I didn’t get good grades that I wasn’t worth any of your time or attention. We’ve had so many memories together, none of which I want to relive, all of which reduce me to tears. My favourite part was when you’d ask me for my opinion and if my opinion wasn’t the same as yours then you best believe I’d either get shut down or punished.

When I first met you, you told me you’d love me with all your heart. You even talked to my parents and promised them that you wouldn’t disappoint. You sold yourself to my parents and they looked at you like you were worth exactly five hundred thousand bucks (not including all the “romantic” trips you made me pay for). The fact that you promised me more than you could afford should have been a warning signal but I couldn’t see past your charming demeanour. Our relationship was always ups and downs, but lately, it’s gotten a lot worse, and by lately I mean the past two years.

I gave you solutions but you ended up just giving me more problems. Our relationship was a lot of give and take, except the only thing you were giving me, was bad food and mental breakdowns. And the only thing you’d do that was remotely close to taking something from me was leaching off of my successes and money for your benefit.  

I would wander into your bathroom stalls on the verge of a panic attack, time and time again, and even if you noticed, you were really good at ignoring it. You got what you wanted because of my hard work, but I’m still the one who ended up getting more depressed. Isn’t it funny how I’m supposed to miss you, yet everyone that’s left you is so much happier without you? You never listened to my problems, you never cared about my mental health, and you never wanted anything good for me (and if you did, your actions never showed it), you were like the toxic boyfriend I never asked for.

You were so good at showing us off to the public which is probably why I still stayed with you, you put me in newspapers when I did well and your empty eyes danced with lies and a smile crept across your face when you met my parents. My parents loved you so much. My parents would praise you and I let them because how could I tell them that I hated you, that I didn’t want to be with you anymore when you deceived them with all your manipulative tricks. You weaved a web of deception and trapped more and more victims, but you were never satisfied you always wanted more.

I cried to my parents, one day, telling them that I couldn’t get myself out of bed to go to you again, that every minute I spent with you took a toll on my mental health. That I couldn’t be with you no matter how much I tried, but of course the blame came back on me. They would ask me how I couldn’t appreciate you when you took such good care of me. They asked me how I couldn’t appreciate you when you displayed my name across a wall, with numbers scribbled beside name as if I was a barcode number for a new product on the market. Before my parents could confront you, you had already called them and told them that you were concerned about me, that you were just trying to save me from myself, that you loved me. Then why didn’t I feel loved, if you loved me so much then why didn’t you do anything when you saw that I was struggling, why did you ignore all my cries for help, why did you turn me against my own parents.

I wish I could leave you but I’m tied to you with these invisible strings that have cut deep into my ankles and wrists, I will never really get rid of you, the scars will always stay. I can’t leave you, a part of me doesn’t even want to because you’ve brought so many amazing people into my life, and I reminisce about the first years of our relationship when we were madly in love. I remind myself of the times you took me on trips, surprised me with ice cream, and all your spontaneous outbursts of speeches that left me more in love with you even when I was mad. My friends say I don’t give people enough second chances, well, this time I’m giving you 228 more, so please don’t make me regret it.

I will still love you no matter how many times you make me feel worthless because how can I ever stop loving someone I’ve spent seven years with.

Thanks for everything,

sad gal

no one receives love by demanding it            
and that’s my biggest fear
if i ask for something and i get it
no questions asked    
it’s not love
it’s sympathy

-something i’ve learnt recently

there’s a glass window between you and me
the kind so clean that sometimes
you think you’re on the same side
it’s just an illusion, a pathetic fantasy
so instead you tap at the glass and mock me
with your laughs, banter, and little secrets
there are quite a few people on the inside
i’ve noticed it’s getting crowded in there
but i’ve never seen the window open
so how do they manage to sneak their way in
you let in flies and snakes and spiders but you won’t let me in
maybe i should break this glass between you and me
and even though the shards will cut my fingers and knees
it’ll be worth all the pain if it finally means i’m in  

- alone

you said that life wasn’t fair
so you fell in love with death
aching to run away with him as if it’s an affair
waiting longingly for your last breath
you even wrote death a love letter
asking him to take you away forever
but you should’ve realized sooner
that death is charming and clever
that you’re dancing with the devil
as you sink into the noise of late night revels
that death fills your head with poison
and he corrupts your thought and reason
that death treats everyone the same
and when he takes you, he has finally won his game

- but aren’t we already in hell?

what you don’t know about writers
is that when we write we put on a cloak of thorns
we set ourselves on fire and give ourselves burns
we let ourselves drown in an ocean of pain
just to be able to let go of our thoughts again
you can’t imagine all the wars we lost
and the number of people it cost

what you don’t know about writers
is that we blame ourselves when people leave
that’s when we write, while others grieve
we put on masks to hide the fact
that our so-called strength is all an act

our pens are double-edged swords
little do you know the heartache caused by our words

the ink from a writer’s pen stains their heart
but they’ll swear that it’s all for art