I hate how easy it is
for her to just look at her scars
to talk about them
like she talks about the weather

'you're beautiful' I tell her
'thanks' she replies
'really. I mean it'
'I'm sure you do'

She sighs, fiddles with strings
I try to emphasize my point
tell her more. all the time
but daddy never told her
'you're beautiful'

I hate seeing her scars
little reminders
that at one point
I could not be there
to love and cherish her
tell her that she's beautiful

Maybe I'm being selfish
maybe she loves her scars
maybe she doesn't want them to leave
but maybe she's just being strong

I am not the judge.

As the sky began to fade to a lighter shade
the stars bid their farewell
and the ones that fell to the earth
took all my wishes with them
and 11:12 laminated my disappointment
you're still over there
and I'm still here

Today I got a new sketchbook with an embossed leaf on the cover-
saying-"Nature's Best."
And the inside was so white and clean
I was scared to draw in it
to mar the beautiful pages with the unforgiving
mark of a pencil.
Thinking that I wasn't worthy enough,
I didn't deserve
"Nature's Best."

The most beautiful song I've ever heard was sung by a German Choir,
and I remember thinking-
that maybe, German is a beautiful language after all
hidden only under the angry tones
of fighting and ugly
hurtful words.
Vogel im Kaff, it was called.
I'm not sure, but when I used Google translate-
it said-
"Word not found."
Maybe it wasn't in German after all.

And the people who tell me-
"Ugly."
"Fat."
"Why do you even live, anyway?
It's not like you deserve it."
I know. I know that I'm not worth anything
But sometimes, I actually catch myself in the mirror and think-
I look nice
I'm sorry. I'm sorry for thinking that. I'm sorry for hoping,
for believing.
I'm sorry.

And you know that feeling?
When you're in public
frantically searching for the right chord
on a piano song.
Sitting a spotlight undeserved
Playing for people who don't need to hear this
"music"
Like cracking open a egg and accidently mixing the yolk with the white
when you're trying to make a crème cake.
A desperate feeling that's sort of scary
because your brain knows that there's no way out.
I wish all minds had a delete button.

Throwing myself into learning different languages-
I thought that if I could speak
German, French, Italian-
then I would be exalted.
That somehow,
all of that would change my personality,
Who I was.
Guess we all have a "no refund" tag when we're born.

The type of people who-
"Belong everywhere, but don't fit in"
and the type who
"Don't belong anywhere-but fit in anyway-"
Which type am I?
A leafed page of the book,
folded over to conceal ***** words.

You know, if you look at a picture long enough,
what you once thought was beautiful will begin to peel and fade
exposing its unperfected innards.
If it's that scary to look at something already "satisfying"
what would it be like to look at something not even close to perfection?

Black lungs, bright eyes.
You are my only addiction and I inhale you into
my blood
stream

.
Leave me in the wreckage and I
will sing of you forever. Take me with you and
I will only slit your throat.

there is no such thing as an antihero,
only a villain
who has found an exuse,
an antagonist who can speak more prettily than
all the others
who can lie holes straight through
the hero's
heart,
find their place in the universe
and blot it out on the map because
the universe
does not tend towards anything
but solitude.

you will find yourself all alone.

you will find yourself all
alone
and you can snap the neck of every doll you own but
despair will never be anything more than
an unrequited love, an
attachment that you never grew out of, a
high school crush that you stapled to your heart so as you grew it was like
a gastric bypass
you cannot hold as much love in your heart
as your mother
said you could
but you can kiss and sigh and with every moue you'll wonder just
why
your chest feels fit to burst when you get any deeper than
touch
heart fit to rupture you are the main villain
of every book
i've read
the antagonist in every story you are
the angry girl whose doll parts
lay in pieces
at her feet
whose bomb will detonate if you get too close
{the character i could relate to the most the character i hated the most the character
i talked to whenever i could and
memorized every line to replay, god
i hate
the way you speak
and i want
to hear
it more}
i ripped out your staples and added my own.
{despair will never reciprocate but
i understand you i
do
because we are the same and i hate you because
you hate yourself
and i could give you nightmares every night and
listen to your motives
every
morning
'people are disgusting'
you said
as if it was
a revelation}
you're not ****** up, just out of luck
because four-leaf clovers can't survive droughts.
you are seventyeight percent water
and every drop you spent on
drowning
the background characters
and every doll on your bedroom floor
{i love the way you cry when you laugh because every time
i hope
that one, that one tear
is the final drop wrung from the shroud
of a sailor a burial at sea
and you will crumble
into
dust}
you angry girl your eyes
are a yellowing bruise on the storyline
your backstory is a rash
on the protagonist's hands
and all your inner demons told you you were not alone but
you explained them away and
appeals to pity left you empty.
i will rip out all your staples i
will make you
seventyeight percent
saltwater
my heart is a mirror you can find yourself there and
reassemble yourself
from all your broken parts
i will be the blueprint from which
you rebuild
yourself

{a story is nothing
without
a villain}