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I hate the way I walk. The way I command. The way I talk. The way I stand.

Hate my curves. I hate my body. Hate my nerves. Hate everybody.

Can't stand every thought. Can't stand the pain. Couldn't stand who I fought. Couldn't stand my vain.

But throughout every fight. Through the fear. Through what was right. Through every tear.

As you read this on your phone. As you read this in your head.
As I'm here all alone. As I'm here desiring to be dead.

Know that nobody can save me. Know that I was full of hate.
Know that I just wanted you to see. Know that this was my fate.
 Jun 2014 Schanzé
Haruka
You were always so fascinated with silhouettes.
The way the ***** of the nose flowed into the lips,
flowed into the curve of the chin,
then the ******* and finally the heart.
You told me I looked beautiful that night
that you first kissed me.
I could swear I heard my heart soar but
maybe beneath that flutter,
I failed to notice the slight crack.
Because the moment you made your home
in my ribcage,
I lost segments of myself until the day you left,
I now notice, you actually left nothing at all.
Looking back, I see that it was actually my fault.
I was hasty in loving you so fully.
My mother told me to be wary of the drugs on the street,
the day I left home.
But she failed to mention that some drugs come
with a beating heart and hazel eyes.
I still feel you flowing in my blood stream.
Your scent, permanently embedded into my bones.
And I don't know what's sadder:
The fact that I'm still in love with you,
or the fact that you were never loved me to begin with.
You only loved the idea of me.
You only loved my skeleton.
And you were all I ever wanted.
But I was not brilliant enough.
Now I see that you only love silhouettes
because you're afraid of fully seeing someone,
out and vulnerable.
So, you settle for shadows.
I hate you for making me hate myself.
I was so in love with you,
I haven't felt alright since you left.
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