why am i like this?
how do i scare everyone away?
i am your biggest fear, your phobia, the monster on the streets.
i paint my claws that i only ever hurt myself with.
my hair is a nest where nightmares hatch, & the mascara dries on my cheeks.
these eyes find the flaws, but they also see the scars and weep.
what? don’t you want to kiss me?
or are my chapped lips too angsty?
do they say “crazy *itch” at you?
do my endless questions also itch at your skin?
at least your skin seems comfortable.
but how dare i make this all about me, when we all go through the same.
because i am your drama queen.
i declare a set of rules, i keep records on what you say,
i write letters to your name & invest in you each day.
each day i put on my armour & climb the watch tower.
i see you on your horse.
you are not the knight.
but you shine regardless.
you earn the trust for you to enter the iron gates.
once you are in, the damage is done.
it just takes your leave for me to feel the sword.
what hurts is that i tripped over it.
my vulnerabilities were out
in the open.
& you accidentally hurt me.
this, humans can’t promise not to do.
i am an addict.
i write my insecurities & my inabilities down,
& my pride goes into poetry.
i do nothing about anything.
& i can’t.
some would say it’s pathetic,
how one can be so overwhelmed by the underwhelming,
how one can be so distraught by the daily doses of life.
if i accept it then i have given up my responsibility.
if i ignore it then it silently damages me & my capability.
if i address it i am holding on & i deny my viability.
whatever i do, it has won,
& it has left me with nothing.
but that’s what a loser does.
sometimes i feel my feelings feel too much.
sometimes nothing makes sense.
sometimes it feels normal that nothing feels okay.
but that’s okay.
sometimes i stress about stressing about stress.
sometimes i hate my irrational abnormality.
sometimes i cry about my weakness.
but that has to be okay.
there isn’t a definitive answer to my questions.
there seems to be more struggles than strengths.
there isn’t a clear path, or a silver platter with a cure for me.
my clothes cover my cares like sugar coats the pills i swallow.
The pill being _.
but i make a choice.
a lot of the time it seems i don’t have one.
but i do.
sometimes i am influenced to make it,
but i do.
i always do.
doctors and scientists are trying to find
the causes, effects, & answers.
i sleep & wait.
but instead we should be
& never ever letting go.
even if they prove it is part of my genetic makeup
i will wake up,
i will get up,
i will make up,
i will stay up,
i will help myself,
help others help myself,
help others help themselves,
& help others help others.
i will highlight my temples with wisdom & peace.
i will shadow my eyes with beauty & light.
i will paint my lips with humility & kindness.
my genetics will not make up whether i give up or not.
they will not make up my mind,
or make up someone else’s.
my genetics are not choosing if i live or not.
suicide is not a choice.
suicide is not make-up.
suicide is not a gene.
will not take part
in my genetic makeup.