I made a mental note that the way that you were looking at me was different.
I told myself to forget it.
Maybe you were just having an off day?
Everyone has off days, so what?

But then it continued.
Consistency had never been so terrifying.

When we first met, you saw me as a sad girl who rarely spoke.
Then, when I spoke, you saw me as a sadder girl that could sometimes make a good joke.

When I looked at you, I saw a beautiful, but misunderstood soul.
When I looked at you, I imagined a galaxy, your freckles spread throughout your body like the stars.
When I looked at you, I saw mischief.
When I looked at you, I saw my lifeline.

But you never looked at me, in love with my smile--
you never looked at me, in love with anything about me.

You weren't in love.

And maybe I was and maybe I wasn't,
maybe every person who is older than us is right and I'm too young for that.
But what I felt...
It was real.

I know it was real.
I've analyzed my emotions a thousand times--you know me, I have--
and I was nothing but honest and raw with you.
I wasn't putting on a show for you, acting, like I did for everyone else.

No, you were the one doing that.

You told me I was beautiful when I was sweating rivers.
You told me I was brilliant while I failed Algebra 1 three years in a row.
You told me I was better than Emma Stone and that weird British guy with the funny name.
You told me that you felt the same way about me as I felt about you.

You made me feel like every ****** thing about me was magnificent and beautiful,
like I could make no mistakes.
I know now that that is not the case.
I think I was the only one of us who actually believed it anyway.

Intentionally or not, you fooled me into believing that you would be there for me when I felt doomed.
I believed that I finally had someone to trust completely.
I realized, alone in my living room, that you wouldn't be drying my stupid fat tears...

So I cried for hours.
I laid my cold and sorrow-heavy body on the carpet and wept.

I loved you so purely, truly; I promise you that.

But you owe me nothing for not feeling the same.

everything is
crowded.

I'm not sure what's
real and what's
fake, or what's
good and what's
bad, or even why
I am still
here and not at
home and just
sleeping
relaxing
letting
go.
Instead I am
here.
I am trapped between
four men and
three strollers and
too many
cowboy hats to even
remember how many there
actually are.
All I can
focus on is how
absolutely
terrified I
am and trying not to
disturb anyone but
also trying to
get enough air in my
lungs that I don't
suffocate.

But that's really
really
really
hard to do
especially now
especially here

So please excuse
me for a
minute if I
make myself
small
or if I start to
whimper
or if I
cry a little
bit.
It's nothing I can
help.
But the worst thing about
it is that when
you're afraid of
parties or
stepping into the pantry or
the city bus,
it sometimes feels like there's
nothing you can
help.

And trust
me when I
say that
almost nothing is more
painful than being
useless.

Within this pearl-white room I sit,
Confined by walls of *******.  
Through the white noise of this nightmare,
No one can hear my silent screams.  

On the ground lay a small blade,
I pick it up, gander at it in its splendor
And shimmering steel.
Out of desperation,
I scratch jagged letters into my skin.
Words that signify my desolation:

H E L P M E

Tucked away, separated from
The Architect of Light,
I now **** from the breast of Darkness.
In my quietest moments I wonder,
Where is the Sun?
Where is the Light?
Have they left me too?

Pointing I say, “Over there! My reflection
Meditating on the opposite wall.”
Walking to it, the silver glass begins to laugh
As it collects my thoughts
Knowing my cry of wants.

Now in a world of wells that
I cannot escape,
I scratch and pound at the door
To make a sound.

My final embrace,
Are my silent screams that demand a response.