i don't need a boyfriend. i need a therapist.
i'm not meant to be the one that got away. I'm meant to be the bullet you dodged.
i'm so yours. i'm so sorry.

Playing ball
with a sack
full of words,
I nod along
as you set up.
Clinging to my drink
as if my bones
were connected,
I trace my pocket
over and over again.
Until finally,
your voice slows,
and my hands catch
your words.
As they reach
to toss back
a response,
I’m relieved
to have something–
anything–
to do with my hands.

Cutting through the canvas of silence,
you present as a practiced painter,
laying out all your lines
with deliberate ease.

Each stroke
of your tongue
frames intention
with perfect dimension,
while this pause
signals invitation
for interpretation.

But the shapes your lips make,
collapse with your features,
and I’m left unsure of your tone.
I can't gauge your reaction,
but it dictates my next word.

Your brushstrokes fall faster
than I’m able to sift through
my archives of memory,
searching for something
that might help me relate.

I inventory my pallet of words
But the pigments are dull
And their boundaries blended.
I try to string together a response,
But the art of conversation
is lost on me.

Red.
It’s not pretty on me.
Not lipstick.
Not Valentines hearts.
Not cute red sweaters or “you’re so strong compliments.”

My red is the kind that stains.
That sticks.
That screams when I try to whisper.
Red is the colour of being left.
Not once.
But over and over and over.

My mum?
Yeah, my bio mum.
She left like I was a book she stopped
reading halfway through.
But she still sends postcards.
Like that makes it better.
Like writing, “Love, Mum” at the end
wipes away the years that she wasn’t there
to love me at all.

Do you know what it feels like
to get a message from a ghost
trying to pretend she’s still real?

I don’t read them anymore.
I just stare at the handwriting and
feel nothing.
Or maybe too much.
I can’t tell the difference anymore.

Red is the rage I swallow
because screaming makes people
uncomfortable.
Because no one wants to hear
about the kid sent to boarding school at 11
like an inconvenience.
Shipped off.
Silenced.
Discarded.

Dad didn’t even fight.
Just handed me over
to a woman who never saw me as hers
and made sure I knew it.

Red is the silence between us now.
And it’s loud.
So loud it drowns out the sound of me breaking.

But the worst red?
The darkest?

Wasn’t just what they did.
It was what they took.
Two men.
People I trusted.
People who smiled at me like I mattered
before they ruined me.

I said no.
I said stop.
But they didn’t hear me—
because they weren’t listening.
They were taking.

And one of them carved a word
into my skin.
A word I won’t repeat.
Because it’s still there.
Because when I shower, I still trace it.
Like it might come off this time.
It never does.

Red is that word.
That memory.
That version of me
that I don’t know how to bring back.
Sometimes I look in the mirror
and all I see is what they left behind.

I’m still here.
Yeah.
Breathing.
Just barely.

But I think about giving it all up.
More than I say out loud.
More than anyone would guess
by the way I smile in hallways
and laugh when I’m dying inside.

Red is the part of me that wants to vanish.
That writes poems
because if I don’t put it on the page,
I might not survive the weight.

Red is major depression.  
C-PTSD.
It’s waking me up and wondering why.
Why me.
Why still.
Why now.

It’s wanting someone to hold me and mean it.
Wanting my mum to show up
in something more than postage stamps and pretend love.
Wanting my dad to say,
“I was wrong. I should’ve kept you close.”
But knowing they won’t.
Knowing they didn’t.

Red is the truth no one wants to hear.
The pain they skip over in movies.
The girl in the back of the class
with scars on her heart and skin
who’s just trying to get through the day
without breaking apart in front of everyone.

Red is me.
All of me.
Hurting.
But still breathing.
Still here.

Not because I'm strong.
Not because I want to be.
But because even though everything in me says give up,
some tiny voice
buried under the rubble
still whispers:
Wait.

Humble greetings all
we rise or fall
upon the swords which are our words
steel of critics teeth to edge the blade,
a thousand stings and stabs
or gentle and much softer blows
which fortune falls upon the writers head
is not for us to tell,
what literary hell awaits
who knows

Chandelier tears—pretty faces, pretty tears, pretty much falling,
crashing. Clear the room—this empty space sobers me; I’ve
been drunk on emotion again. The heavier ones don’t bring
me peace anymore, they only hit as hard as another strong
drink.

Should I speak? And in the same breath admit defeat—
these dark thoughts are so creative they become destructive,
crafting a beautiful kind of ruin I can barely reason with.

Hey—just speaking truth for those interested in it. Truth is...
I’m not always okay. I pretend to be, just to survive the weight
of another day.

It’s a dark space, and I clear the room to break down quietly,
to feel like I’ve repented something, to write myself into a better
place—hopping over the pen, jumping the fence of a mind that
sometimes cages me in. I’m not so pent-up anymore— not when
I let the ink do the talking.

And yes, I try to wear a brave face—but every face sheds a heavy
tear, every person caves eventually. Pitted against themselves.
As even the strongest people, the loudest, or the proudest—
they cry too. Just…not in front of you.

Maybe I don’t have a purpose.
Nothing bad has happened to me.
I’ve worked hard for everything I have now.
Maybe that’s to fix the dreams of the little girl,
Who had everything taken away from her.
Her room, her possessions, her ability to trust.
Nothing but broken promises.
Filling up her bubble of hope too many times.
If I had purpose, would I be able to expect my expectations?
I see nothing but disappointment in every human.
Is this real?
If I had purpose,
Maybe I would be fulfilled.
Maybe if I had purpose,
I would be well loved.
If I have purpose,
Maybe I would enjoy the world.
If I had purpose,
I would have company.
If I had purpose.

to exist
when i want nothing but love of my own
for myself
some of it,
dedicated entirely to my being,
my skin, by all means

and i feel like this skin isn't mine
like a second layer
some days i dream of tearing it apart
and perhaps finding what i look like
within

is it any different from the other deformations?
do i have it smooth, baby-like, good enough, to be accepted?

had it been all natural,
nature-given, that way i'd have perhaps accepted
alas, knowing it's a play of the world onto me
and in my body,
my blood messing up everything it's meant to do for me
all because of the ones that were supposed to create antibodies

there's this guttural scream that ensnares me whole

where do i go
when i see them fight the demons outside and around
i can't even win the battles that i carry within me, all time round

and i'm on a war with myself
there's rage, there's ache, there's the pain
of when will i accept
i shall forever bargain

why do i even begin to heal if i have to go down the same place
down the same low
the lows hit lower
i see new symptoms, new symphonies of how it could and would
and it does—it gets worse again
and it's a cycle

healing, accept the white little ***** that carry the science of potential magic
put all my hopes, have them disintegrate
go back again
start at the beginning, new dose around—i'm healing

and then i come crashing down again

and it's the nights
and the mornings
that are the worst

both the times, when i should be at my best
i'm battling, wanting to hide and disappear
and wear a snake-like skin on myself

i hate me
and this hatred lives deep within like a monster that birthed itself
out of the normal, the ordinary that i have lacked

there are days where i pull at my roots
watch them fade
watch them fall
i cry and lose hope with every strand that couldn't stand tall
and it's like cemented on me

had it been scales on a snake, i'd have called it flashy
it's disgust that's piled in my eyes, against my being
i see the look on my face
the dead, the dead stares back every time i try to play pretend
and it whispers
it whispers, smirking in my ear

this is what you get

be normal?
oh i would do anything—exchange half my lifeline
if i could live through a healthy half of life
or whatever remains
i've tired myself out of it all anyway

there's bumps
and there's fractures
i feel like it's my own skin that peels
every time i grasp it

and it's visceral
too graphical, no gore however
makes me wonder
how it'd be—moments of softness
where i cherish just me
where who i am isn't my enemy
even just for a breath
i wish to write about that breath

but oh—
imagining is hard when there's nothing left for you to do
the ones living in delusions have thought and wondered if it could all come true
my case is different
so far, years upon years i've been hoping
but the last of this strength, the last drop in the vessel that was given
it might run out as soon as i stop breathing and moping

and i am perhaps the most devastating liar of all
you shall never see me burning myself to the ground
for i'll stand tall through it all
and in front of your lies, i'll deceive and speak my practiced lines
i'm alright, it is what it is—i'll be fine

i won't be. i am not. i'm tired. give me some hope.

i might be a ***** for feelings
and i fear—i fear so loudly in a silence
call me a *******—love is what i want
hatred is all that i got

i have been hiding
and i've been running
and i sat in this adventure ride
never got back out of it

i'm scared
and i don't think i'll get out of this shell ever
so i imagine myself hiding
covered in multiple shells and armors
walls surrounding me, boundaries in the form of
words and my own scars—the ones that aren't even on the surface
protecting me, giving the silent comfort
that they are here, to carry me on, forward

and i've lied so much
i started believing my own lies
forgetting what was the truth
'cause it hurt so much

what do you do when you go down?
where do you go when you are drowning?

quiet is peaceful
quiet is welcoming
like i don't have to perform to exist in here, no
especially the dark
no one can see me
i can't see me
and that's just easy

to exist that way
been felt for, not seen on the surface
not just looked at, but heard
for your voice to find out of your own existence

there's voices in my head
that'll scare you more

what even is there to love
or like?
i see nothing
and on the surface
it's all to despise

show me if there's something
don't tell me it's the heart that's worth it

when you starve yourself for long enough
the void of hunger becomes like it's a normal
the new normal

starving myself of everything
to get used to it the best way
the void, though
continues to grow

i get these random bouts of feeling
such immense loneliness
makes me want to pull in the closest person
hug them tight
take all the warmth
squeeze out my life

i'm layers upon layers
of words and of stories
of people i've met, their memory
and of all who've given up before me
girl in pieces, i shall call myself
would anyone even want me?