I feel as though my mind has become confetti
Thrown across the room
I can't direct it or control where it lands
I can't control or plan
My mind meanders on its own going where I wish it would not go
I try and pick up the confetti and bring it back together
I try and gather my thoughts
And instead they become deeper
I cannot focus them where I want and they're uncontrolled and cluttered
I wish to start over clear and content
But the confetti has already been thrown
It's fine in the air
It's mixed with everything around it
And nothing can undo it
How unfair

Fall in love with yourself.

Learn how to be infatuated
with the veins in your hands
and the stretchmarks on your tummy.
Make your own heart race
as you whisper those
three words,
eight letters
to yourself
over and over again.

I love you.
I love you.
I love you.

And mean it.

If you can learn how to
profess your undying love
to the naked, scared figure
in the mirror,
you can learn how to
daydream about a future
where you
and that person
are finally happy.

If you can give
a piece of your heart
to that stranger on the bus,
why can't you give everything
back to yourself?

You,
who picked your broken self up
after dropping to your knees
one too many times.

You,
who dragged your ***
to the toilet
after drinking the night away
(even though you promised
that you wouldn't do it again).

You,*
who wasn't always there,
but tried to make it up to yourself
by covering your wounds
with purple plasters
and starlight.

Because when people
turn out their pockets
with no spare love
to hand to you,
you will stuff your hands into yours
and give them some of your own
without ever running out of supply.

To be loved by one is a joy
To be loved by two is a delight
But to make the choice for your choosing
who you believe should have your heart
                             OR
who you want to have your heart,
is terrifying

You love me?
no.
But you want me.
yes that's it
you want me.
because when i'm with you
i am small.
i can't help but be a different person.
someone who likes to be told what to do.
i get my fix of sorry feeling.
i get to be punished and pulled apart
until i'm nothing but your words and ideas
i deserve to feel like trash.
i deserve to be your pet.
you ground me.
second guessing every move is intoxicating.
being unsure makes rattles my chest
keeps me on my feet and somewhat scared
of you
and of what can happen
if i keep on listening
saying no feels wrong but still you coddle me
asking why and disappearing to let me know
i have things to work out.
i'm a mess
you foster this in me by speaking empathy.
youre a mess too.
lets be a mess together.

you know
people could call this abuse
but somehow for some godforsaken reason
i eat it up
for those few moments you make me feel good
you tell me who i am
i need that right now
i need you to tell me who i am
over analyze my every word
tell me my symptoms
lets bask in our insane abilities
where your knowledge gives you the upper foot

why do i want you
why do i want this
whywhywhy do i NEED it some days more then others
your validation is a terrible drug
i can't stand it
leave me alone but
don't leave me

I'm sorry
it won't happen again

Ive become
this permifried *****
this unintelligent underachiever
this messy mistake
The drugs in me now are nothing compared to what you did to me

Don't call me a fool
just because I don't fit your bill.
I am made of mistakes
and ugly laughter.
I am a before,
a right now,
and a happy little after.

I am gritted teeth
and burnt roast beef
and tired eyes
and skinny lies
and bloated bellies
and tiny tellies.

I am shattered hearts
and missing parts
and miniskirts
and false new starts.

I am that one channel
your parents don't let you watch,
or a giant, messy void
called a black ink splotch.
I am peer pressure,
irresponsibility,
and midnight crises
pushed into a fleshbag
to walk around the world.

Don't control my life
just because you can't control
your own.
I have my own place in this world-
-a place called the throne.

Tidy room, tidy mind.
Logical, is it not?
We splash our life onto the canvas of our bedrooms.
Our dreams escape onto the walls as we sleep.
Our feet drag the dirt of our adventures on the floor.
Our desks are hidden under papers, pencils, a calculator, papers, a spoon, a comb, and two large hands ransacking the surface looking for a misplaced paper.
I like my room in the mess of sense I understand but maybe mom was right. I have to reorganize my room. I have to reorganize my mind
to clear the pathway between my bed and the door, so I can have a new vision and spend time looking for the right things.

You asked me once to write about you.
What would I write, though?
Words cannot capture your devilish grin
or the way your red hair shines.
Words can't tell of how you make me draw a breath
when you press your lips to mine.
Words do not begin to tell the story your eyes can with a simple glance.
Stories of regret and pain.
Stories that kept you from ever being the same.
I cannot find any words that would show the world
just how much you mean to me.
You are the moon and all the stars.
You light up my nights.
You are the sun, brightening my days.
You are every dream I have ever had
and every wish I have desperately whispered at 11:11.
You are more than any messy poem could ever convey.
Here is your poem, my darling.
I'm sorry it's not better, but the only words that even begin to explain how I feel are I love you.
I'm not sure how it happened, but I do.