He forgot how to help himself.

He forgot how to love,accept,and respect himself.

He now loves feeling his pain,
and wishing things were still the same.
Exchanging brains,
for drugs with names,
that will land him under the ground,
or inside of a cage.

It’s a crime to wait,
for life to take,
the righter path,
with a mind that hates.
At night he’ll pace
his mind will race,
yet sit in place,
designed to waste.

Why does he do it?
So self destructive.
He claims he isn’t an addict,
but isn’t above it.
The future is bleek,
so no need to recover.
A bleeding heart bruises,
and is misleading in color.
At the moment before,
the moment he snaps,
and right before he’d lose it,
*his music *oozes from the loosest of nooses.

I heard your name today.
It sent shameful chills down my spine.
How can something so full of life feel so cold.

I thought about you a little bit after.
It made me smile.
I could feel each laughing memory on my lips.

I was happy, but it hurt.

I like to only remember the good times,
But I need to remember all the bad to remind myself why.

I never knew a person could make me feel so guilty for their own mistakes,
But you were amazing at it.

I had always been one to stand up for myself until I met you.
Never had I ever felt so small until I took a stand right next to you.

I can see you in my mind.
You branded yourself and then you left me.
Left me to feel the flames all by myself,
Left me to hear all my demons without a defense,
Left me to ponder every action and every mistake.
Maybe it was all my fault.

No.
It wasn't my fault.
******* for making me think so.
******* for manipulating me,
Making my think you were someone you weren't.
I could blame the monsters in my head,
but you were the real monster.

You are the evil that entered me.
You are the drug you encouraged me to take.
You are the hysteria I let myself travel with.

Eating is hard.
Not eating is hard.
It’s hard to be hungry,
and it’s even harder to be full.
It’s hard to say yes to food,
and to say no.
It’s hard to eat foods you know you shouldn't,
and not eat foods you know you should.
It’s hard to stare down a full plate and think,
“How am I supposed to do this?”
and it’s hard to stare down an empty one thinking,
“What have I done?”
Food is hard to deal with,
once you make it a situation
rather than a necessity.
Breakfast is hard,
lunch is harder,
and dinner is the hardest.
But maybe looking in the mirror is the hardest of all.

The amount of similies in love poems are ridiculous.
They always remind me of how his eyes are as green as a Christmas tree
or how his hair fell onto his face like a shadow
or that when he blinked his lashes resembled butterfly wings
or that his smile was similar to a crooked coat hanger.

They never mentioned
how his fingers were long and shaky like branches in the wind
or how his shoulders hunched over like a good game of jenga
or how the curve from his chest to his torso was as steep as a hill
or that when I found the bruises on his stomach,
they were like ink splotches all over a beautiful poem.

They left out that his dad hit him like a train
or that his mom lived in the house like it was a bar
or that it would hurt like 16 bee stings
when I saw a line of 16 scars on his left bicep
or that the gasps in between his cries would sound like drowning
or that his eyes can ombre to be as red as an egyptian sunset.

They never warned me that he would come crashing down like an avalanche
or how his constant expression depicted a shattered stain glass window-
every piece beautiful but still apart.

They could've said that reading the headline
"local boy commits suicide"
would numb me like paralysis
or that hearing his last words would echo in my head like screaming in a cave
or that his funeral I would say
"loosing him was like an overcast of rain"
except I lied,
because losing him was like a flood
and that his grave stood out like a redwood tree carved of stone
or how his dad looked at his own hands like looking at maggots.

Love poems never said that I would miss him like being homesick
or that the drive to the cemetery would feel like skyrocketing to the moon
or that I would refuse to play jenga with my little cousins
or how I would hate hanging my clothes without seeing his smile.

The amount of similies in love poems are ridiculous.

The only reason
I tear my skin
is to free the feeling of you
rushing through my blood

How can I ever tell you that
in the 21st century,
as innocent as you are,
you will be sexualized.

It started with
one peak under that skim cloth
that made you an icon
Halloween costumes
turned your baby face into
the mask of a "babe"

There are no more dogs
struggling to tear your short shorts
now only mutts scattering clubs
hands dangling onto your belt loops
as if they were in the middle of a hurricane

You, Coppertone Baby, didn't know any better
you were minding your own **** business
vacationing on the beach
when somebody had the audacity to snap a picture
of your ***.
Sweet little girl,
you are us.

You are society's expectations of innocent women
so easily willing to publicize our bodies
printed on billboards
sold in magazines
You put your hair up for vanity
but we tie our hair back to avoid
violent hands
You, Coppertone Baby
will never be known as Cheri,
just like today,
we are branded into the clothes made to hide our bodies
but couldn't do it enough
we are the voiceless

We are the shadows hiding behind anatomy
we are nip-slips
we are on the front cover
of ******* magazines
You grew up not expecting it
merely existing
only knowing the words,
"mommy and daddy."

Welcome, Coppertone Baby,
to the present, not so much a gift
where your first words are now,
"thank you"
the camera is constantly pointed
constantly asking you to sit pretty
you will learn to avoid beaches
and only buy the clothes
that suffocate your skin


I know you were meant to sell sunscreen
but how can I ever buy your product
if I can't even hardly
go outside.