when i was younger,
my mom would turn the mirror to me with bright eyes.

"look at my beautiful girl!"
she'd say.
her truth was the only one that mattered,
and so i'd smile,
crooked teeth and disheveled hair
because, well,
if she thought i was beautiful,
surely i was.

i'm sixteen, it's been ten years.
time has worn my confidence thin.


i can't look in the mirror anymore.

Every breath I take reeks of calamity
I start counting the biscuit bunnies I had yesterday.
which sadly reach up to eight.
Not my favourite number at all
I look like an exploding fireball
but despite that everything is dark
and ruddy.
like the insides of a trash bin .
My hands are clammy,
throat, a jammed highway of emotions!
If I used ten thousand oceans
as ink, and a million deserts as parchment,
I would be unable to describe my pain
for it was born a torchering antagonist,
a piece of congealed blood in my lungs
and my breath reeks of calamity.

You control my life,
restricting each breath,
each laugh

Because of you,
I’ve forgotten how to smile,
how to live

You took all my friends away,
leaving just me,
and me, alone

You forced me into things,
things I hated,
but they were the only things that brought relief

And I find myself thinking about the past,
before I met you,
before you ruined my life

I don’t know how I used to be like that,
so happy,
so alive

You stole everything from me,
and now,
I don’t even know who I am

Another word gets lost in my throat,
Ravaged by the blindness
That my heart conjured up.
All I can hear is the devil
Whispering into my ear,
Saying “just one more” amidst the white noise of a room of a hundred people.
Every letter starts dissolving
Into my coffee,
Slowly drifting away into the meaningless impulse.
My lungs are congested,
Carrying all the lust I smoked.
There’s a black plastic bag around my head,
Defying all the rules of the universe,
Making sure that I see nothing
But numbers and words and
Whatever you call that is.
Whatever you call that is.
Whatever you call that is.

Words become meaningless as I mutter them for the 14th time.
I’m building a tower of alphabets
So that I can jump to my own death from it.
I can feel my heartstrings
Get tightened.
My mind slowly drifts to home
As the line between the two demons grow thinner.
But I don’t know if I still have a home
Because even my body has stopped
Being my heart’s home.
So I just blink my eyes one more time,
Hoping I will never have to open them ever again.

I am obsessive
Though my room is a mess
Please don’t touch a thing

Don’t make me
Change or conform
Because that is my fear

But I am obsessive
A creature of habit
Set schedules

A slow walker or
A bump in the road
And I may lose it all
  
Because I am obsessive
I will cry over
Spilled milk

My absolute weakness
Is embarrassment
Head down to walk

Will I be obsessive
When it all goes wrong
I surely will break

How can I live
When my world is
A mess in the neat lines

I’m obsessed with
Poetry- lines and stanzas
All in neat rows

All spaces and ink
Covering my paper
And, yes I am still obsessive

Where does the bird weep?

its hard to write when your mind is empty,
like your brain can't put together the words right.
every time i glance at the blank page
i catch my breath,
and my eyes trail in and out of focus.
i don't know if it's out of frustration,
or whatever else,
but its like my head sinks below the water for a minute,
whenever i pick up a pen.
writing shouldn't feel like drowning, yea?
so why does it feel like drowning?

its hard to write when your hand isn't steady,
like its trying to run away from the words.
an unsteady hand is the enemy of poetry,
so i guess i can say that,
when people ask me
why i can't do the things i love anymore.
why my days are spent inside,
shades drawn.
maybe i can say that i can't see the notebook,
that's why i haven't been writing.

what i don't say
is that i don't
want
to see it.

these days, words weigh on my mind like cement.