I’m clawing at my chest,
Because I want to make this itching ache stop
But I am unable to reach into my chest and grasp my stomach and clench my heart;
I am unable to tell it to stop its fluttering
Just as I am barely able to hold back the sob that wants to rip through my throat in an agonizing scream.
BUT I CAN'T.
Because I can’t do anything.
I have no control.

And normally I would be okay with that,
But in these moments losing control is the worst thing
Because it is the one thing I so desperately need.
Just when things are going well I collapse into myself again like an exploding star.

The cycle is repeating.
This is the hardest part. It’s the most painful.
It is crying all the time
It is anxious
It‘s having fidgety hands
It's headaches from furrowed brows
It's seeing the inadequacy of yourself and not being okay with it.
It's like having a microscope on yourself
Its being exhausted all the time because you can’t stop the overthinking, the analyzing, or the constant pity parties and comparisons

I’m sick of being so emotionally fragile.
I just want to move on to the next stage already
To the numbness that follows
So I can stop caring
Stop crying
Stop hurting so **** much

I just want it all to go away.
I want the pain and hurt to go away.
This ache isn’t numb, it's not sharp, but rather it is suffocating.
It is hands around my throat squeezing  just tight enough so that I feel like I'm dying, but aware that I can still breathe.

How can you run when you know?
⁃Neil Young

America,
Our words won’t shake the world enough to grow flowers out of gunpowder, or bright red, blood-curdling screams.

But we can try

These kids were 14 when they closed their eyes for the last time
They were 14 when the stepped out their front doors for the last time,
Their fresh eyes were swallowed out the back of their necks

I look at them the way I look at a blank canvas
Opportunity cascading like waterfalls
I look at them as a museum that was waiting for art
Waiting for love
And America
I am waiting for love

I was 14 and I was stuck in my own head
Trying to find something to belong to but searching in all the wrong places.
I was 14 and I too thought more about ending my own life than I would like to admit
I was 14 and I never watched the news because it never pertained to me

You see,
I was selfish for thinking the news never pertained to me
I was selfish for staying so disengaged, desensitized
America, my home, my nightmare
Wake up
Blame the video games, blame mental illness
But America, look
You’re killing your children

Wake up,
Because I am sick of praying
I am so tired of feeling helpless
Maybe there’s something we can do
Let's make our voices heard
Let's turn our lost blood to ink
And scream to ******* artist himself,

I’m sorry, Mr. President
But, did you get more than you bargained for?
We’ve been patient Mr. President
And we’re ready for your response.
Wake up, Mr. President
How many lives must be lost?
You’re a ******* artist, Mr. President,
But you can’t worm your way out this time
Don’t choke now Mr. President
This problem is kinda huge.
This country is a divided wrist, Mr. President
And your stubborn orange skin makes it seem as if we’re going to lose.

5 | 31 Poems for August

You don’t know who to run to, who to run from or if you should be running at all.
You don’t seem like your usual self, is there anyone that I could call?
Love, the media is not a true standard of beauty.
I wish you would stop measuring yourself according to their scale.
You’re still beautiful, it’s just that their perspective has changed.
You’re ashamed of the bitter woman you almost became.
They taught you how to succumb to the pain and shame.
They taught you how to hate every bit of yourself.
Made you believe that you’d look and feel better if you conformed to the absurd standards of someone else.
They should’ve taught you that the presence of another woman’s beauty is not the absence of your own.
Embrace your crooked smile and all your perfect imperfections.
Stop seeking validation and start loving yourself unconditionally.
Never let the world turn your starry sky into a ceiling.
Wear your crown proudly and embrace the queen that you are.
In a sky full of constellations, you’ll always be someone’s favourite star.
You are ashamed of the bitter woman you almost became.
They taught you how to succumb to the pain and shame.
You are still beautiful, it’s just that their perspective has changed.
No matter what the media says you will always remain beautiful to me.
Always.

“Self-love angers people who hate themselves and she understood that at length.” – Flex Boogie

Everybody that comes here day in day out and bears their souls, often with no response, yet still they come, because in some quiet way it helps. You know who's awesome?
All of us.
So there!