come on, now.
every monday? fresh flowers, more tears...
stop crying for me. i’m okay now.
it doesn’t hurt anymore.

i hate when you ask questions.
you don't even listen when i answer.
...do i feel happy now? stop asking me that.

how can i be happy? i miss you guys.
17 years isn’t enough time with a family.
but i don’t hurt, either. i don’t feel anything.
i got what i wanted. so, just.

be happy, move on and be happy.
that’s all i really wanted, to make you guys happy,
and…oh, you’re leaving. okay. well, see you next week.
if….if you wanna come back sooner….
you should.

it gets lonely on the other side.

all i have left are frayed nerves,
a flattened frame from being the doormat,
fingers worn to bone from writing it all out,
and a bunch of angsty poems.

but here's another angsty poem
from pitiful, insignifigant me.
i'll shout this one from the rooftop
and make you see me for who i am.
**** and vinegar and revenge,
sugar and spice and nothing nice.

this is all i have to give, so listen hard.
listen hard because i will never be
this honest again when i say,
oh my god, just tell me you don't care
about me and just want to
use me and get it over with because
i am sick of this *******.

you can tell me you care over
and over again until you are
blue in the face and it's not going
to matter because your actions say
otherwise and words are cheap.

and while you're at it, would you mind,
would you really ******* mind, if i
understood your motives? i was doing
just fine, i really was, i was getting along.
building my walls, brick by cemented brick.

but one word halts construction.
one phrase postpones completion.
and i'm doing it the same way
all over again.

i'm sick of giving myself to something
only to have it snatched away from me.
i'm sick of being the friend who's always there
only have no one be there for me when i need them.
i'm sick of being taken advantage of, i'm sick of...
i'm sick of being second rate.

i'm just sick.

words are cheap and talk is cheaper.
and that is all i've got from you.
actions are worth so, so much more.
straighten up, or i'm out.
thanks.

it's been eight months already
and i could still trace the scars
that danced up your arms as
your hands danced across
my body.

it's been eight months already
and although i hardly knew you
your every kiss breathed life back
into me.

it's been eight months already
and i still don't know what
i was looking for but i found it
in the rise and fall of
our bodies.

it's been eight months already
since you picked up my pieces
and melted them together with
the heat and the passion i saw
in you.

thank you, stranger, for saving me
from myself.

I'm the girl that no one sees,
the girl who's constantly begging please.

I'm all of the world's silent suicides,
the one with stories full of shadowed nights.

I'm the one with the ocean eyes,
and nothing but the best of intentions;
the one getting all the honorable mentions.

we're the kids who keep on quitting.
we're the ones living our lives running.
we **** the threat of smoke with the smell of *** [on our breath].

we're the kids with the blinding smiles.
we're the ones on the late news at eleven.
we **** the threat of a future with the promise of tonight, tonight.

we're the kids who do it for love.
we're the ones making history tonight.
we **** the threat of growing up with the first and last sip of the night.

we're the kids with the pretty eyes.
we're the ones with the broken smiles.
we **** the threat of regret with the scars on our hands, faces, legs.

we're the kids with too-big pupils.
we're the ones with the hyena laughter.
we **** the threat of misunderstanding by not being able to speak.

we're the kids who'll make the difference.
we're the ones you'll remember.
we **** the threat of losing ourselves by giving it up [with one ****].