Sometimes, I wish it were boy.
   A boy who kissed me for the first time.
   A boy who saw me naked for the first time.
   A boy who touched my body for the first time.

Instead, it was a girl.
   She would make me take my night gown off when we would sleep in the same bed.
    She would kiss me and touch me when I had no way of understanding what it meant or why it was happening.

But I let her.
  
See, in my mind, I was finally getting the attention I was lacking from everyone else.
I  finally felt loved.
But she manipulated my innocence by making me think this was all normal.

When it wasn't.

I didn't realize this for 3 years.
3 years of confusion.
3 years of shame.
3 years of abuse.
At least it stopped.

It took another 8 years for me to actually tell someone.
I remember there were very few words exchanged.
No tears.
No hugs.
Unbearable silence.

I remember spending that night crying into my pillow
wondering why nobody cared.
Would they have reacted differently
if it were a boy who had done this to me?

A boy who stole my ability to trust anyone.
A boy who made me afraid to sleep in my own bed.
A boy who stole my ability to think of my own body as a temple.
A boy who took advantage of my desire to be loved
   and then made me feel unlovable.

But it wasn't a boy.
                 **It was a girl.

I pretend I'm made for better things
I've been saying watch me spread my wings
But I will fail and I will fall
You should not have believed in me at all
I like to think I could change the world
But who am I but a frightened girl
Who tries to break from an inner shell
But will probably never escape her hell
So how could I be more than that?
From myself, I want to turn my back;
Give up this attempt of keeping on track
To being successful and never crack,
But I am me and I know me well,
Enough to know I'll never quell
This self-hatred enough to succeed
I don't have the confidence that I need.
What a ridiculous notion I created;
This ludicrous motion of a fight debated!
How could I win the war of life
When all I can focus on is strife?
There's no way I'll become a leader,
I'm born and bred as a bottom-feeder,
I'm not destined for greatness, like I thought,
That was a wishful dream that we all bought.

You make death seem like the ultimate thing to wish for
                   On a shooting star,
                   Or at 11:11
                   Or on whatever it is people wish on these days.

You make slicing my thighs seem like the ultimate prize
At the end of a long day.

You make death seem like it’s the only thing I need to aim for.

I don’t dream of what my life could be anymore,
                    The job I could have,
                    The family I could love
Rarely crossing my mind.

When people ask me where I want to be in 5 years,
                    Or even 3,
I hesitate.
Wanting to be 6 feet under the stars,
                    Maybe in 5 months,
                    Preferably in 3,
But these are secrets you dare not speak of,
So I simply reply
                    Happy.
Maybe in Washington,
In a port town,
Or in Colorado in the mountains.

I don’t dream about love anymore,
                     Or at least I try not to,
But my god do you make it hard
Because,
Well,
                      I love you.

Instead I try to dream of cars,
Crashing into me,
It gives me the same sensation as dreaming of you,
                      But it doesn't hurt as much,
                      Or as last as long.

I find it hard to find the thrill in living.
Maybe I’m just not doing it right yet,
But right now I find a certain thrill
                       In hiding my scars,
                       In pretending to be fine;
I like to give others enough information
That if they tried hard enough
They could figure me out,
To see if anyone thinks I’m worth the effort.
                       Update: I’m not.

She paints a pretty picture

Her favorite color is red

The brush is constantly busy

She paints for hours in her desolate room

So secluded from reality

It drips


Too much paint causes damage to the canvas

This canvas has become a mess

It cannot be fixed

But still she won’t stop


So badly she wants help

She cannot stop painting

Addiction

Paint is everywhere

But it is now mixed with tears

She ruined something so fragile and beautiful


This painting has a twist

Her eyes are swollen

Her tears sting

Too much red


Fragile

Beautiful

Forgotten

Broken


Too much painting

Too much red

Why bother walking up to me with your fake plastic smile?
I know you could care less about me,
So why pretend to be nice?
I don’t care,
You don’t care,
Nobody cares.