I wish you could remember
that I'm not thirteen anymore,
and my favorite color isn't blue,
and I no longer dream of becoming a singer.

I wish you could remember
the friends I've talked about,
and the foods I've stopped eating,
and the way I pick on my skin when I'm nervous.

You've always been there
in every milestone,
in every achievement,
and throughout special occasions.

But sometimes,
I think—if you could remember
the little things about me,
maybe, it would matter a little more.

I love you—I really do.
But I'm not the little girl I used to be,
and I hope that someday,
you can finally see who I've become.

your side of the bed
sinks at night—I turn to see
you're not there at all.

my fears follow me like shadows
only a step behind
quiet, ever-present
always tethered to my mind

even when night prepares for its slumber
and the light begins to wane,
they dwell beneath my ribs
pounding with relentless pain

they grow in the dark
not through form—but by weight
and not even the rise of morning light
can free me from my haunted state

my soul grows thorns—not roses
yet you rest your head on my lap
like I am something sacred

if love grins
and sinks its fangs into my heart
perhaps I would let it

if love paints my lips
maroon when it kisses
perhaps I would let it

if love wraps its arms
around me in a suffocating embrace
perhaps I would let it

for if love was to forsake
nothing but scars and wounds
perhaps I would still call it holy

and if love leaves
as quietly as it came
perhaps I would still call it love.

the mirror despises
the eyes staring
as if it was just a shell
of what it could've been
another observer
in a hollow body

it doesn't know me
i don't either