Haze covers her eyes.
Masks her from seeing anything that is too bright.
Weight pilled on her chest, so much that she is barely breathing.
Barely moving..
She wishes to scream but the pressures to much
and no one would hear her anyway.
She feels like she's drowning...
and although she knows how to swim
the water has the upper hand...
Even though she's barely living
and there are hundreds of people around... no one seems to see
and she likes it better that way.
If no one knows they won't treat her like a freak
if no one knows she has the upper hand
As long as no one knows she's free to pretend.
She's not okay, but she hasn't stopped breathing yet.

I guess you could call it poetic how by the age of 12 I had no recollection of what happiness tasted like on my tongue. Some would say it was tragically beautiful.
But it was not poetic, nor was it beautiful,  but it was tragic. It was so very, very sad, and that sadness is only doubled now that people see sorrow as glorious.  It is not glorious. It is not strength. It is a lump of iron in your chest and stomach and it eats you from the inside, out and you have no right to think that blood stained wrists are anything other than tragic. So very,  very tragic.

beware when you fall in love
with an artist
be it a painter, a singer, or poet

for the artist will
paint you
with strokes and hues
in shapes of every kind

sing about you
with heartbreak lyrics
and feelings which rhyme

write about you
with the simplest words
and a secret message she wants to say

beware of the artist,
and her love
one wrong move
and you're an artwork in her display

Where did all my right words go?
All I'm left with now is cold,
a full head,
and a heart full of wondering
where I went wrong in the crazy world of life.

Maybe if I was better, I wouldn't hurt so bad
I could see what you see in me.
Maybe If I was better I wouldn't have to pretend..
I could be what I hide inside.
Maybe if I was better, the pain would only be in nightmares
that cover my actual dreams and not just my figurative ones.
Maybe if I was better they wouldn't look at me that way.
Maybe if I was better...I could finally breathe.

I have an urge to put something down in words...
Something That will make a difference...
That will matter in the long run...
I'm running out of things to say and ways in which to put them down.
so for now I'll settle for the ones that fill my head...
and hope momentarily they are good enough.

Why is my focus so blurred?
Why can I barely function?
Why did I let you change me,
destroy me, contort me into something I'm not?
These are the questions I ask myself daily...
But the biggest question of all is..
Why do I stay?