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When you first met me, you told me that you were instantly intrigued,
"It was like a click,"
You said months later, pulling me closer to you like you would never let me go,
For a long time, I never understood what you meant by that,
However, I never questioned it,
Because we had each other, and we were knee deep in our fairytale.

Months later, we were savoring our rare and precious time with each other,
Lying side by side, on the damp cold grass of a football field,
The sky pitch black, except for little diamonds lighting up parts of the sky,
You looked at me, completely memorized by these small points of light,
"You love the stars, don't you Goof?"
You said, tracing my point of view with your eyes,
In my silence you found my answer,

To me, you see, stars were some mystery, beautiful points in the darkness,
Beacons of hope in a pitch black surface,
A safety place when all you see around you is darkness,

In that moment you took my hand, but instead of just holding it tight in yours,
You pointed our joined hands to the sky,
You revealed the most enchanting thing about you,
You picked out constellations in the night sky,
Telling me the stories of Cassiopeia, the Big Dipper, and the Little Dipper,
Soon, after months of you taking my hand, spinning me around and showing me these stars,
They became my constellations,
My Cassiopeia,
My small beacons of hope in the dark,

Only when things ended between us,
Did I finally understand what the click you felt when we met meant,
I didn't feel it in the beginning,
I didn't realize that the click was the beginning of our connection,
I didn't realize that the click was the beginning of our journey,
I didn't realize that the click was us falling for each other,

However, what I did realize,
Sitting alone, knowing my phone would never have your name on its screen again,
Was that even if you can't feel the click in the beginning,
You can sure as hell feel the pain of that click coming undone,
And all your small beacons of hope in the night sky,
Becoming beacons of unwanted memories surfacing every time the darkness crashes upon you.

-E.M.W
I'm not asking the world of you
I'm not asking you to be perfect
or to take back all the crap you out me through.
Or to make everything ok,
or come back and Hold me
or kiss me like you do,
or want me like i want you
or need me the same.
or **** me one last time
or tell me your last secret.
IM ASKING YOU TO JUST **** REPLY !
What the hell? Was your object of this whole relationship? To rip out my heart? Shred it to microscopic pieces? Well it worked. I officially am terrified to ever love again. You lied to me, for 12 months, you lived a lie. All for what? The satisfaction of getting into my pants? Congrats. I gave you everything, my love, my body, my virginity. You tell me now "I never loved you, you never made me happy" Well that's just fan-freaking-tastic. I wish that I could of stopped loving you so much. You were the only person in my life that I have ever loved. And you used me. You caused me pain. Physical pain, I have scars on my not-so-perfect body. Mental pain, you got into my head, and made me think that I wasn't worthy enough for your highness. You were the king, you called the shots. And I stood by, and let you run my world. I never felt so alive. I was at the point of breaking, and now that's what I am. Broken. I used to be a strong, independent girl. A girl who never let a boy or anyone tell her what she could or could not do. You changed me, you abused me, not physically, but mentally. You didn't hurt my body, I did that on my own, by tearing away at my skin with a skinny blade from my razor. You hurt my heart, you hurt my self esteem, you hurt my confidence.
But I have overcome you. I am stronger than you. You are a coward, a bully, but you are silenced. I shut you up. Because I realized that I am a strong, independent woman. I have grown, so I thank you for that. You no longer run my world. I make my own decisions. And I don't need a boy like you in my life to make me happy. The scars and pain that you caused is now a reminder that I have overcome you and I will never go back to being a scared insecure little girl.
 Nov 2013 samantha neal
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wishes.
 Nov 2013 samantha neal
-
I wish i was interesting
I wish i could sing beautifully in front of my friends
I wish i know how to dance, be it ballet or hiphop
I wish i can be beautiful without even trying
I wish i wasn't so scared to speak for myself
I wish i could draw or perhaps paint
I wish i was fearless, not afraid to be whoever i want
I wish people love me, the way i love them
I wish i wasn't so clumsy, in life and love
I wish i am attractive enough for boys to notice me
I wish someone could give me a tight hug now
I wish i get to meet my soulmate soon
I wish my friends understand how hard my life is
I wish my family doesn't pressure me anymore

I wish for alot of things
But none of them came true.
17
I was 17,
when we discussed workout routines in gym,
thin legs branching from ruby-red shorts,
skin pale and dappled in winter air.
I described my workout of 200's.
200 crunches, 200 sit-ups, etc. etc. etc.
"You make me feel fat,"
my model- built friend complained.

I stared down at my shrinking thighs,
wondering how fat she would feel,
with hollow spaces beneath her skin,
numbed by the gnawing of metabolism on muscle.
If she could feel her labored breaths circulate
through drained limbs,
and saw the stars and sparks in the haze of exhaustion,
that perpetuated around me.
If she shivered
walking home in without a coat in December
simply because
Cold burned more calories than warm.  

At 17, I learned
Electric blankets were invented for asylum patients
so they wouldn't freeze when they were lain outside
to get fresh air.
I shivered under mine in a warm house--
strangled by three layers of hoodies,
a morbidly comical scene-- the skeletal inmate cowering
in masses of cotton
and still cold.

The skeleton in the mirror had no eyes,
Only its bloated stomach stared back at me.
Forget the thigh-gap,
the stomach was the only thing that mattered.
It should be as flat as the unleavened bread
I refused at communion:
I didn't know how many calories it had.

I was 17,
when the word "beauty" fell from my vocabulary.  
Lank, unwashed hair hung limp to hide the
Inflamed scratches on my face: feeble efforts to eradicate
the hatred, guilt, over two extra bites,
and what I had become.
Here I was, in all my gollum-like, two by four perfection:
except the stomach.
That ****** bloated *****
I wished I could tear it from my body,
Throw it aside to rot on the heap
of moulding high-school dreams
I kept in the corner of my room.

But it remained, day after day,
the stubborn thing stayed on,
even when filled with saltwater,
to force it to give up the last bit of its contents.
Three mugs, and several tablespoons later
it finally relinquished,
in the emergency room,
as my mother stood
holding my hair and crying.
I still thought she was over-reacting.

I looked up at the ER doctor,
middle aged and blonde,
her eyes were sympathetic, but annoyed,
As she asked me if I was trying to **** myself.
"No," I said. Not Yet I thought,
I heard my dry throat crack with the words,
"I have an eating disorder."
Thanks to rehab and prozac this is all behind me.
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