my mouth tastes like pennies and your hand is too warm on my thigh under your parents table and i wish you would move it and i know the way you squeeze softly would be attractive to other girls but i am not other girls

i used to read books out loud to you and when i stumbled over words you would stroke my hair and i don’t think you even heard a word i was saying

you say you love math because there is no uncertainty and i think about how i am never a fixed point and i wonder if this is why you’re not always there when i wake up

you tell me you know me better than myself

my face feels too tight and flushed and i am not a crier but i wish i was now

you like to control me and i like to control me and i feel guilty for this

her lips look very soft on your cheek and it’s been a few months but i remember you never let me kiss you in public. she has bigger eyes than me and i still think about you

there are 2 bottles of sleeping pills and my favorite knife and a pack of cigarettes under my bed and i kissed a boy whose name i don’t know last weekend and it felt good

i haven’t cried myself to sleep in three weeks

your hand is too high up on my leg and i want to go home

I think I'm torn between who I was and who I want to be.
Trapped in purgatory just behind the exit.
I'm stuck in a room with no windows, only doors, none of which I have the keys too.
Somedays I'm so close to getting through one of them. Maybe the key is hidden under a door mat in someone else's subconscious or maybe just beneath my feet.

home
is not in a house with
2 floors.
my home doesn't involve a child
or two.
it has an old swingset in the backyard.
a frisbee still stuck on the roof.  
an annoying floor that no matter where you step
you'll be heard.
home holds more memories
and tears
this house will ever produce.

Basically skipping up the sidewalk,
I turn the key and enter.
I pet the cat on the steps,
and hug my father.

(In English, we were supposed to write a poem based off of George Ella Lyon's poem "Where I'm From" and this is the one I wrote)

I am from picture frames,
from Dove and Suave.
I am from the white house on the corner of the street
(far enough from the train tracks, close enough to the park).
I am from lilacs,
from the rose bush on the side of the house,
always humming with bees.

I am from crocheting and complaining,
from Edith, Rachael, and Susanne.
I am from blind eyes with a blue glow,
from "Speak up!" and "Sit up straight."
I am from "Now I lay me down to sleep..."
and old, golden cross necklaces.

I am from Ohio,
turkey, and sweet tea.
From the night my grandparents ran away togethers,
and the glass wedged into my father's finger,
the day god lifted him from the driver's seat.

I'm from the upstairs closet,
sitting beside childhood memorabilia.
Images of faces I never met,
and those I'll never forget.
Bags of animals,
stuffed with imaginary souls,
and boxes of books
which tales will never grow old.

Dear…. ***** face.
Oh, man, I hope you didn't get offended by that I am so sorry… Well, I mean you shouldn't because you’re like the spawn of Satan, right? So… No. you know what? I’m not sorry. You have made me say sorry to such a large amount of people in a short amount of time to things that don’t even matter.
Things I shouldn't be sorry for.
No, I am not sorry for my social anxiety.
No, I am not sorry that I said the wrong thing
And no, most definitely not am I sorry for having a good time for once.
You are not only stomping on my mind but my heart. Why the HELL are you making me panic in the middle of a convenient store with only two other people in it when
I just want my chocolate bar.
I don’t want my cheeks turning red, my heart racing, and my voice shaking like I've been crying for 45 minutes.
And then I will go cry for 45 minutes, while not enjoying my chocolate bar because you’re the one who pushed me out of those doors empty handed and back up into my bedroom where I will spend the next 3 days feeling sorry for myself, but also hating myself. For lugging you around all my life instead of letting go when I should have a long time ago. But no. It’s hurts to let go. Because every time i try to, the rope burns that have scarred my hands never heal. They’re always crying out to me whenever I eat in public, use a public restroom, make eye contact with strangers, and… just simply exist.

I am tired of you twisting and churning my stomach every morning before I go to school, every time I want to go somewhere alone, every time I see someone who’s better than me.

I am tired of you always having that crooked smile on your face every time there are tears running down mine.

I am tired of you.

                          Sincerely,
                                 the girl who you’re possessing.