the truth is
I want to die
but the truth is
my death
would hurt more
people
than my life.

for in living
it is only I who suffers.

and I have discovered
that the greatest pain
is not in being hated,
but in being ignored.

and sadly
the only way for anyone
to really understand what I meant by that

is to live through a life
of being overlooked.

of speaking
and never being heard.

of wearing masks
so everyone can stand being around you.

of being constantly told
that you are fine
when deep down you know your truth.

of using tears
to clean your face
just so you can smile once more.

being frustrated
at your inability to articulate
these feelings into words,
failing to realize that there is no way
that they could understand what you mean

because what you experience,
this personal hell,
is not in their scope
of existence.

I could go on
but their voices have seeped into all my cracks
"it's all in your head"
"get over it"
"you're just being dramatic"
and I end up judging myself

feeling less like a person
and more like a thing
that was made wrong.

a misfit
a mistake
a dysfunctional
an oddity
an alien
a ****** up
overdramatic attention-seeker.

everyone has ****
why can't you keep yours in line?

everyone has pain
why can't you fix yourself?

just talk about it.

let it out.

it's easy.

what is wrong with you?
why can't you just tell me?

I hide tears away like illegal contraband
feelings that should not be indulged.

I wear smiles like special passes
so I can weave my way around society.

and all I really want
is a little patience
a little acceptance.

I'm not too much of a freak
that I cannot be loved.

I promise I'm not so bad.

just give me some time
I'll be good

please?

Don't go far off, not even for a day, because --
because -- I don't know how to say it: a day is long
and I will be waiting for you, as in an empty station
when the trains are parked off somewhere else, asleep.

Don't leave me, even for an hour, because
then the little drops of anguish will all run together,
the smoke that roams looking for a home will drift
into me, choking my lost heart.

Oh, may your silhouette never dissolve on the beach;
may your eyelids never flutter into the empty distance.
Don't leave me for a second, my dearest,

because in that moment you'll have gone so far
I'll wander mazily over all the earth, asking,
Will you come back? Will you leave me here, dying?

pathetic is the way that i yearn for your attention,
clawing at anything tangible;
your water slips through my fingers in a
parade of mocking figurines
twirling and fleeting as my grasp tightens
and i end up with less than i started with.

do not think that i am the only one who notices
your frigid civility
and a bitter taste rises through my throat
as i remember the way you gripped it,
squeezing,
screaming

"i'm so sorry"
i forgive you.
no! no! no!

away with my tender thoughts and deceived imagination;
come closer, dear, and i'll show you how much you mean to me:
i hate everything about you,
and i want you to love me back, please.

twist my melancholic soul,
for you have become so cold.

(and i will heal you,
although i cannot remedy myself)

the one i write for
is the one --
i write for one,
the one among --
the only one--
one lonely solitude
i write for one.
you are the one;
i write for you --
the one who reads
and knows i write
for just the chance,
that one among
the many, that one
i write for,
that one
that you
who reads and feels --
the one who knows,
the one,
the one i write for
is the one you know
as you.