So you're asking me what I wrote poems about?

About questions asked, but never answered
about remembering, or being someone new
about love, about treasure
about life, about you

i miss the panic attacks that i
used to have
the ones that made me physically weak
the ones that made me shake and cry
the ones that told me that i am weak

sounds terrible, and they really were.
but, i'd rather the physical pain
and the emotional pain
than the psychological pain that i
go through when i have my "new" attacks.

my new attacks scare me so much because
i suddenly feel so unreal.
like reality is taken from me
and i can see myself
i can see the people around me,
i can see everything
and its exhausting,
being in that state of mind.
and then i start to hear things--
screaming people,
children laughing,
a constant voice just saying something.
these aren't my thoughts,
this is a new form of panicking.
and i hate every second of it.

26/1/14
I was burning the midnight oil. There was not a candle in front of me. Just lights that never wavered. I was wondering what the night might hold. I heard the clock and chimes as the cold wind blew into my house. The bells belonged to my neighbours. I did not sleep a wink that night.

27/1/14
I don't remember what happened two days ago, but I was glad my mind was too tired to overthink. I fell asleep early that night to music I liked.

28/1/14
I had the urge to destroy myself in the evening but a friend brought a smile to my face just in time. She didn't know. I don't know if I was grateful that she foiled my plans. I thought that the worst place to ever be was between ok and not ok. Sometimes I don't know who I am anymore.  Sometimes I feel accomplished just by deciding which way to walk so I wouldn't run into the person walking in front of me. Sometimes I rather not have a family and I can't recall the reason why. I hate the me I do not know, my mind is revolting. I am in this by myself, no one is as hateful as me. I lose my thoughts a lot because my mind never stops running and searching for the scattered pieces. I don't fancy the idea that being emotionally unstable is now a personality trait. I used to show my anger to everyone but not anymore. I just want to be alone and write and write and write and write. Funny how a week ago I was too numb to feel a thing. I couldn't feel and I couldn't write and I did not feel alive. Then there's a sudden realisation that there is so many people around me, I do not fancy this idea. I did not have the intention to get better. I still watch everyone like a hawk, and I realised sadness makes you forget things. I was late for school today. I promised a teacher I will never be late again. I hope I keep my promise.

It's night time now and I am thinking about how I used to wonder how it will feel to step out onto the road and crash head on headlights. I travelled to an old friend's house to lend her a chemistry textbook. She still sounds the same and I missed how we used to laugh together. I passed by the market and remembered how my mum used to prop groceries in the pram and leave me to my own tiny feet. I forgot if I preferred walking, or my mum pushing me on the wheels. I remember how I wanted to leave this place, now I am just afraid I might have nothing to look back on. Sometimes when it rains, I want to go outside. I haven't been out getting close and getting hurt and I wonder if that's a good thing. I have thoughts that replaced regrets and devastation, but it still leads to nowhere. I was thinking, maybe I've suffered long enough to know that things will be okay.

29/1/14
It's been a few days and I still do not know whether to eat blueberries or strawberries. I did not notice the sidewalk cracking. I wonder if I have recovered because I am back to where I started. If you insist,  label me as someone who was too "lazy" to get better. They say to never let anything be your happiness because they can be taken away, but I don't think I ever knew what makes me happy. My dad finally got a sofa today but I liked the feeling of my back against the ground. I get affected so easily, little things change me and I can't recall a time I was ever me. I'm not sure how long I will stay awake tonight. I realised you don't always need a knife to- I am indefinite.

Different colors in the giant race
The first to finish?
The one with the palest face

He won with pride through tricks and schemes
The people continued to hate him
So he just pretended to be on their team

Patriarchy is only for the toughest
Yet it seems like survival of the fittest
Is only amongst the dumbest

We all walk in dead men's shoes
Single file, chains on shoulders,
In uniforms colored red, white, and blue

How can you be so happy by making other live in despair?
That's my question for you, Uncle Sam
Why must you be so unfair?

I am a rough draft. I am the crossing out of words that are not good enough in red ink, question marks after highlighted theories by your English teacher.

You are eventually going to ask about the dark lines on my right wrist, and I will eventually tell you the truth. I'll tell you the very first time was when I was only seven years old. I sat on my bed and stabbed my hand with a pencil. I have a few scars from that and I hope you will eventually have the courage to take a black pen and connect them to create a constellation and help me make sense of all of it.

When I cry because I get overwhelmed with how much I love you, take it as a compliment. Yes, I cry often. Yes, I love too much. When this happens, unzip your skin and make room for me. Fit me into your chest, because I will try my hardest to fit in between the bones of your back and the spaces in between your ribs. You will see every ounce of my love for you in the ringlets of my hair, every vein you can see in my wrists and every bone that pops out of my back.

After our first real fight, I will call back a half hour later, asking you to stay the night. When you get to my room, you will hear the kettle steeping and the bath running. I will run into your arms, and yes, I will cry again. I will plant kisses on every part of your body I can see, and whisper apologies for being such a mess in between every kiss.

I will make you many mix tapes and write you lots of letters. I will kiss the corners of your smile whenever I see it. I will write you many poems and seal them in envelopes and mail them to you, even if I was going to see you the next day. I will want to cook with your mother and discuss renovation plans with your father. When you roll your eyes when I call them by their first names, I will laugh.

But please know, I am only a rough draft. You will get tired of my love, my poems and fitting your fingers in between the spaces of mine. You will carve your name into my bones and my skull, rearranging every one of my veins to spell your name and seal a picture of every moment we fell in love all over again on the inside of my eyelids. For every time I blink, you will be there. You will be everywhere, and I am not able to leave my mark on any boy who claims he loves me, so know that you will be free. I was only the rough draft.