I cannot write a love poem
to make you come back to the door.
I cannot write a love poem
to change what is and always was.
I cannot write a love poem
to make my tears subside.
I cannot write a love poem
to make us meant to be.
I cannot write a love poem
to end all of the fights.
I cannot write a love poem
to change the way you see me.
I cannot write a love poem
to make me seem more sane.
I cannot write a love poem
to be what you want me to become.
I cannot write a love poem
to make you see my way.
I cannot write a love poem
to gain back all your love.
I cannot write a love poem
to change who i am to you.
I cannot write a love poem,
though I truly wish i could.
I cannot write a love poem,
it wouldn't do me any good.

But did i?
I'm not so sure,
Though I cannot tell whether I did this to myself or
if I was placed here by genetics or
if it was outside influences or
a little of each.
All I know
is this is where
I am and I
Want to
need to
have to
must leave.
What will I do if
I can't?
How can I stay in this dark place
where I have been stuck,
forced to live in silence
and pain
and struggle
each day?
Every.
Day.
I do not know
How I became this way,
So severely ****** up.
I am cold,
because of my problems.
I am gray,
because of my problems.
I do not glow.
I am yellow.
I am red.
I am striped
like a brown zebra.
That is my fault.
It is all
my fault.
I let myself become this monster and now
I am under the bed, socializing with
the other monsters and
I cannot leave, they won't
let me leave.
I am stuck.
Stuck in the dark
under the bed
with the other monsters.
They tear me apart and
I help them.
Slowly, slowly, ever so slowly,
I **** myself.
Which is worse?
killing yourself in one swift move,
or doing it ever so slowly
over a lifetime?

I am cold.
Cold from the inside, out.
My hands are cold,
my feet are cold,
my legs are cold,
my ******* are cold,
my nose, my lips, my toes,
my ankles, my stomach, my back.
my insides.
My heart, mind.
Everything,
is cold.
The days fluctuate between freezing,
cold, chilled,
and very rarely, warm.
Yesterday was warm.  Warm,
all day long and it
was amazing.  I could feel
myself again,
I existed
as more than just a ghost,
an invisible girl.
I was warm.
Happy, warm.
There are good days and
there are bad days and
there are average days, leaning
to either good or bad.
Yesterday was a good day.  A good day
that i have not experienced in a very,
very long time.
too long.
Oddly long.
It was lovely.
Though the warmth and the good
could not last.  Of course,
nothing ever can last.
Today is cold and
uncomfortable.
Cold.

An ode to my father,
for whatever reason.
The father who seems to find
great joy in the fights.
The father who never
tells me goodnight.
To the father who loves,
to the father who hates.
To the father who stands there
guarding the gates.
To the father who's sweet,
to the father who's sour.
To the father whose glare
makes me sink down and cower.
To the years of the silence,
to the years of crushed dreams,
the years of good memories
ripped down the seams.
To the years of the love
you showed to my sisters,
while I annoy you
like a pestering blister.
To all the time crying
spent alone in my bed.
To the feelings of loneliness
you've ingrained in my head.
An ode to you, Father,
For whatever reason.

Broken and bruised
I sit and wait for you to arrive.
I wait for you to save me,
though you never do.
It should not be a surprise,
yet somehow I am shocked.
I sit and wait for you.

I am broken,
my pieces lay about the floor.
I try to collect them
but I am blind.
I wait for you to arrive,
to help me pick up the pieces,
but you never do.
Somehow, I am shocked.

I am bruised and torn,
by my own hands.
I wait for you to arrive,
sew my skin together,
kiss my bruises,
wipe my tears.

I wait for you,
but you never arrive.
Somehow,
I am not surprised.