here’s what they never tell you:
to be loved,
you are supposed to be perfect.
smile wide.
never stutter.
keep your darkness tucked
behind your teeth.

but what if you show your cracks?
what if your scars scream louder
than your laugh?
what if your mind is a rainstorm
that never stops pouring?

will they run,
call you crazy,
lock the door,
swallow the key?

or —

and here’s the terrifying part —
will someone stay,
hands steady,
and say:
"i see you,
storm and all,
and i choose
to love you still?"

and if they do
how do you stay?
knowing that you are
worse than they can ever know.

"you’re my second favorite,"
they said,
and i smiled,
like it didn’t carve
a jagged truth
into my chest.

i am the runner-up,
the consolation prize,
the one you call
when no one else picks up.

there is no space
in this world
for someone like me—
almost enough,
but never.
quite.

they say it doesn’t matter,
but why does it feel
like i’m disappearing?

what happens when you're forever stuck in a transitional phase?
where the hours to days to months and years of time
keep repeating,
where you live in loops while you wait
for something better to come
or better yet - to be something more,
to become something you've always wanted to be.
but your floors are still covered with things you used to love
and its getting harder to do your laundry every week
sometimes you don't want to be home anymore but you know you should;
there's no where else to truly go,
nothing like a home.
what happens when a signal
finally dies out?
does the receiving end ever stop to acknowledge
this loss of electrical power?
no more surging through the seams of life,
i stay stagnant without wanting to be.

how do you measure love
when your heart is a wildfire
& theirs is a candle?

i want a love
that burns my skin
just to prove it’s real,
but they tell me
that warmth
is enough.

maybe i want too much—
a love that spills over,
a love that consumes,
but isn’t that what love is
supposed to feel like?

because if it’s not desperate,
if it’s not all-encompassing,
then how do i know
it’s real?

they call it "too intense,"
but all i hear
is "not enough."

Days spent inpatient
Couldn't save me from me
Years spent in treatment
Failing to set me free
Dozens of medications
Just to be told it's BPD
Hundreds of coping mechanisms
Yet you still won't believe
I've worn myself out trying
To fight for a release.

I'm just a writer.

Nothing more, but never less.
I know my worth, while you ******* stretch.
I have the cards and I have the gun
you have no clue what distress can do.

Be my buddy or be muse
Just leave me alone
If you think I'll lick the blood from your rotten wounds.

It was a few weeks and we fell high in love
I sat and gazed while he took the plunge.
I loved whenever our hands interlaced,
just delicately resting on the same gun.

want to reach out

want to grow the sprout

so why is the weight of the phone a block of cement in my hand?

why do i feel like every word still wouldn’t make people understand?

want them to see through my lenses
want them all to come to their senses

how do i make you care the way that i feel will keep me above ground

i didn’t go through this to be your slutty little rebound

so hold my hand and kiss my softly

although the end of the receipt is quite costly

the bus is coming
and it’s raining outside.
i’m cold,
and my shaking fingers are
shooting missiles toward you from
fifteen miles away.
texting is the worst form of communication.

the bus is coming
and it’s raining outside.
can’t you ever answer the
******* phone when i call you?
do you even love me? do you
care that i’m in pain?
do you care that i’m waiting here,
alone, cold,
while you have your car and
some other ***** snuggled up under your arm?

the bus is coming
and it’s raining outside.
what am i supposed to do,
leave you when you say you don’t care about me?
others have told me that i’m resilient
and i don’t want to make liars out of my friends.
i can take this. i can take this.
i’m not afraid of pain.
keep hurting me. tell me to **** myself
and i’ll kiss your calloused fingers
and worship you like nothing else.
i am on my knees
and the lentils you had me kneel on
are beginning to cut through my skin.
baby? do we still call each other,
baby?

the bus is coming
and it’s raining outside.
do you remember that morning
when you called me a fat ******* *****
because i spilled coffee all over the kitchen floor?
do you? because i do.
and i would crawl through the coffee and the
scattered glass like a dead man does through hell,
trying to get to something better
but knowing they never will.

the bus is coming
and it’s raining outside.
i am not crazy.
well, i am crazy.
but i’m not crazy here.
here, i need you to hear me.
don’t just say you do-
actually do it.
pull my heart out and look how it
pulsates with love.
every beat was made for you
and you just won’t look.
you won’t listen.

the bus is coming
and it’s raining outside.
i have put my hands
through blazing fire to
soothe your enormous ego
and you can’t pick me up
from the ******* bus stop.
****! what’s a girl got to do
to find a man that will
lick her wounds and devour
her fears? am i not worthy of love?
should i just **** myself?

the bus is coming
and it’s raining outside.
i’m a mistake. i am unlovable.
i am a ruined being left alone by God to
suffer in this hell we call life.
everything he says about me is right.
i’m difficult. i cry too much. i’m too depressed.
i’m crazy. i’m crazy. i’m crazy.

the bus is coming
and it’s raining outside.
what was i thinking?
i don’t need a man. i don’t need anyone!
i am more godly than anything up in the sky
or beneath the earth!
i am the vacuum of space
and i’ll suffocate those who think
i’m anything less than perfect.
why won’t he pick up
the ******* phone?

the bus is coming
and it’s raining outside.
i check my phone.
it’s 7:11pm.
the bus isn’t coming.
i don’t think it ever was.