I've always been told that I am a freak. Never anything else until my friends and my love showed up out of the blue. I am not perfect. I don't know why they care, but apparently they do. They are the ones who know most about the things I've done. My attempts, my pains, and my only therapy.

And everyone else that surrounds me claims they know me. Strong, independent, weird, a lover of poetry, and some say I am nice. Others call me a *****. That's not a bad thing... Ever heard of the golden rule? I act a ***** if you treat me as such. But those other things...
Strong... I am a ******* *****. I cried myself to sleep every night wishing, hoping that something, someone would **** me.
Independent... If I was I would be dead right now.
Weird... True, but only to mask the darkness I wish would shine through. My freakish nature is now just a bad habit.
Yes, I love poetry, but only because it is my escape, my diary. Reading it is my distraction. The words seep into me and give me a feeling other than my own.
Nice... I wish. I don't think I have the capability.

And some... Call me a liar. Well, this next chapter is for you.

How the hell do you know? The things that have happened to me, the things I believe, the things I have done, the things I almost accomplished. Why the **** would you care? Why in this "God's ****" world would I lie about trying to **** myself?
I came out because I am sick, I need help. That is soooooo hard to admit. I need help! I should have been hospitalized, but no. I kept everything hidden for months. I was scared specifically because I didn't want to be judged, sent away to a loony bin. I was scared that it would ruin my life, my work, my thoughts. Rob me of inspiration, stress would take over, I would be a ******* wreck! And it did. And I am.

I have taken a turn for the worst. I am trying, but if I need guidance, I don't know how.

I have started burning again. I am sorry.
I have started scratching again, I am sorry.
I have started biting the inside of my mouth again, tearing my cheeks apart. Love, you have probably noticed by now that I taste of iron. I am sorry.

Not sorry that I did it... No. Sorry that I ever stopped.
It doesn't heal me. It doesn't make things better, but there is something about pain that is seductive. Not as much as my lover is, no, but it calls to me still. Tells me I can confide in it. Tells me that I can show it my pain and hurt and will not be judged. Tells me that it will accept me because no one else will.

And that brings me back to you ******* who don't know jack.
You don't know me.
So why the judgement? Because I was ignored most of my life, so I don't know how to be social? Because I was bullied constantly for my hand-me-down clothes from an overweight cousin? Because I love literature from a time that I feel more connected to than now?
My friends know. They know because they get it, at least somewhat. They know my faults, predict my actions, offer solace. They saved me numerous times from falling down a well, gasoline burning at the bottom.
You haven't. Don't talk to me, don't give me that look, don't gossip about me, don't insult me.

You know why I did it? My parents ignored me, preferred my brother. My former friends were horrible people, using me. Rumors were constant because of people like you. Chemicals rotted, corroded, took over the place in my brain that made me happy. Stupid ******* diseases riddled my very being. I wanted it gone, over, done.
That was my last thought before suffocating and falling asleep. My last thought before I was about to finish my masterpiece and tie the final knot. My last thought before the buzz. My last thought before I read the name and lowered my hands.
The knots untied themselves. And I didn't even read the message before I let more of the acid tears escape. I survived, but I didn't know that I wanted to.

One thing in my life is actually good, but I can not get out yet. I can not move onto our island and buy a Tibetan mastiff. I can not fulfill the prophecy I have had many times throughout these past few months. Olivia, my daughter, won't come into the world yet.

I think it is happening again. my parents, the stupid, nasally voices blabbing about things they know nothing about. The chemicals inside my mind corroding me even more. And it has hardly gotten better. Help me escape or I will go insane. Or, at least, more than I already am.

I've grown so weary over these bland days
Of derelict caverns in the smiling youth
Engrossed within this perpetual phase
Of this disassociation from will to mouth
Its vain to be kindred with a free spirit
When you're the only person to hear it

These unending conversations with no reply
Have left me content with an arbitor silence
With my questions and answers in short supply
This depravity ridden with failing patience
I could write a fitting quote that is all my own
But,it's better to be stepped on than left all alone

I once heard those words in the presence of god
He laughed in my face with a screech in my ear
Shoved hell in my view and I gave him a nod                                                    
For the terror it shows is all that we fear
This is written on walls with blood as the ink
I saw it that day and I began to think

What will we take away from this earth?
Can memory live longer that a thought?
Could we remember our life before birth?
Or will we just blend into void and rot?
I begin to ask what is the greater release?
The pleasures of relief or to merely cease?

... And,These weeks go by without a single toil
I wake every day just as the sun will set
This world turns and waits to be spoiled
I fail to see how resistence can be met
When existence is naught but the dawn of the end
A handful of dust and our pride to defend

Is it normal to feel this way?
My heart got let out of the window.

Got caught on the summer breeze.
Back in the seventh month while, in seventh heaven.

Henceforth;
It vanished.
It blew away.

Blew away.
It won't come back.

Can't catch it on a spike.
Or in a net of mesh.

Now it's gone I sit and cry.
Darling, I still want to die.

It's all a pretence.
This pretending not to give a fk

Waiting to hear once more your voice.
Or read power of love straight from your pen.

You said hell, there's no relationship.
I don't know how you could.

Maybe not a proper one, but what we had was fcking good.
Unless your heart was damaged first.
Or made of rotting wood!

Maybe your heart crocheted from wool.
Soft and fluffy.
But nobody's fool.

The sweet lady, Livvi.
Really cute and cool,

Snatched your heart and broke the rules.
For how much longer must I regret?

Your ring's positioned safely back in my drawer.
Hurts too much to wear it still.

Was not a bragger never will be,
Nor out to gain repute.

A rider on your reputation.
Have one of my own to declare and protect.

Adores poetry.
Livvi, the lady.

She bows in respect to you and her.
Have to say she loves you slightly more.

Just a little bit.
For you are a real being,

With human touch.
Emotion and devotion.

Worth having.
Not with a heart of stone.

Her poetry she will still flow.
Whether you stay or whether you go.

As I perceive you already know.
Had a week off.

Missed sheer joy.
Not being curled up with overgrown boy!
(C) Livvi 17/11/13
By ladylivvi1

© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)

I bet her name is Lola.
After all, she fits the part,
all little girl, sweetheart,
bow in hair and storybook ringlets,
bouncing down the halls
on pretty shoes
that I would never wear.
I bet she places her small hand
on your arm when she flirts,
eyelashes ablaze
and head tilted,
inadvertently charming her way
into adulthood.
I bet her voice is sweet,
crackling with forced sexuality
as she melds childhood innocence
with the politics of growing up,
trying to get the best of both worlds
and almost succeeding.
I bet her wide smile falters
when she walks away,
as she realizes the impression she has made
and, too proud to turn back,
continues down the hall
feeling tall
and yet invisibly small,
little girl, sweetheart
in search of rebellion.
I watch her, and
I wonder what
her problem is.
I bet her name is Lola.

That instinct
You have
When you're this depressed
And
Every time
You're in the
Stainless Steel kitchen
And your mom
Is stirring soup at the stove,
And a dribble of
Tomato basil
Slobbers down the side
Of the black pan.

And there's still
A knife out
From when
Tomato intestines
Sprawled across a cutting board,
Which is now in the
Soap-water sink.

You feel it,
In that second.
Instinct.
Need, really.
To take it
And slice open your wrists,
Or maybe just one,
If you're having a good day.

You seriously consider it.
It isn't just a thought.
It can
Scare you, really.

You want-
And one day, might need-
To pick up that knife
And do bad things.
Things that good girls
Wouldn't dream of.

But you don't do it,
And you won't do it,
Because your mom is right there
Stirring soup
And ignoring tomato drool.

And it's such short notice,
You haven't written your note yet.

And I wish you would know that
I know how you feel.
How I know what you've been through.
And how I've been through it
Too.
Because then we might talk,
Shattering unscratched glass with the first sentence,
"What did you get for Number Seven?"
You would say, "Negative eleven, just factor..."
Maybe one day you'd text me and
Ask what the homework was
Because our teacher didn't tell you
From when you were sick.
And eventually, after tons of small talk,
After "How's the weather?"
Got old,
I could finally tell you
That I know.
I'd tell you that
I'm here, not the fake kind of here,
Which sounds like,
"I-know-and-I'm-here-and-you-can-talk-to-me-goodbye-forever­."
Not like that.
But the kind of here
That asks what ****** about your day,
And sends you links to cat videos,
And the kind of here
That texts you at two in the morning
And asks if you're alright
And doesn't take yes for an answer.