and even in the highs, the lows still linger
i told you i loved myself but i'm not made of magic
my skull is thick but still,
it cracks open

i can fool me and you and them but
i have bones wrapped in twenty years of self hate,
and what is loving yourself if not screaming at mirrors and pictures and empty hands

so, please darling, sweet honey, i know i said i was okay
but dont let your words cut sharper than the blades i already plunged through my own **** skin.

I can’t do anything right
I can’t do anything outside
I can’t leave
The voices in my head are screaming
Cover your face, don’t let them see
Cover your face, hide what you are
Mask up, keep it on
Paranoid about my privacy

Days on weeks
On months
On years
Hiding away from the world
They’re always asking
They’re always wondering
They want to know
They speculate

Anxiety attacks
Hands shake
Breath halters
Heart thumps

Don’t let them see
Don’t let them know

Hide away hide away hide away

Don’t show them what you really are

I want to scream, at you,
I want to see you move,
Just a flinch.
Why won't you move?
Why won't you run?
Run, away from me.
Stop looking at me.
With that look in your eye,
My eye.
I.
I want to run away.
Run away, with me,
Stop holding me here.
I need to scream,
Scream.
I need to stop screaming at me.

I've been so stupid
I think as the smoke envelopes my lungs
What was I thinking?
How could I have been so dumb
Spending every waking moment
Trying to become so numb
Where did this satisfaction
Of stillness come from
What were my hopes and dreams
I guess that I have none
I take a drag with a final breath
How could I love someone
When I find such comfort in my own death
I've been so stupid
It's an affliction that I have done

Who is this person I see in the mirror?
I can't identify their familiar face,
But I don't have her name,
She seems to stare into my soul.
She won't see much, it's really dark
I wish I could find out who she was,
But she is behind the mask.

Everyone seems to like her,
She is the loved one, the one everyone wants to be
Unlike me,
Who is this girl behind the mask?
I don't recognize her,
But yet she stares back to see my soul.

My dad seems to like her,
My boyfriend madly in love, head over heals
My family loves how she is,
But yet the don't see me.

She doesn't have scars, the big tummy
She is taller and so very cute,
Her smile is like the break of dawn in early spring,
But I no longer exist.

What do they like about her so much?
Oh yeah..
She is pretty, like a freshly bloomed water lily
She is cute an rather silly,
She is thin,
That makes all the boys grin!!

I don't exist,
Why does she stare back at me?
Why does she seem to mock me so?
Does anyone seem to know??

I guess not....
The girl in the mirror seems to have my face,
No wonder I'm a disgrace.....
They like her, not me
Austin wants to marry her!!
But bury me.

She is the girl everyone wants to see,
But all they get is me......

I’m wearing a smile,
but the smile’s a lie.
I’m holding back tears,
but my eyes remain dry.

They say the way to the soul,
is seen through the eyes,
but if that is the truth,
then you can see my soul’s died.

I’m emotionally weak,
but too stubborn to break.
I scream at myself,
for being so ******* fake.

No one would know,
how broken I am.
Lying is my art form,
and self hatred’s my jam.

How can you love yourself,
when you hate who you are?
Hiding behind falseness,
like skin behind scars.

Maybe one day,
this disguise will explode.
Then you’ll see the real me,
and my world will implode.

Till then it’s my secret,
between me and myself.
So just look at my smile,
and ignore everything else.

I didn’t get the memo
to evolve -
stop sticking my hands
into the fresh-fire,
as if some part
of my visceral mania
wants to ****** my knuckles
with the ashes of Prometheus.

Every day that I don’t crash my car
is a white-hot remnant
of the suffocation of boredom,
like my life is on pause
until I’m nose down in a gutter
or in a line that I keep trying to cross.

There’s evaporated acid rain
condensing within every hangover,
each time the sun
rises; I rip down my fingernails
climbing to reach it,
gasping down
at the pulsating impulse
to make something terrifying
out of paper maché
and broken bottles
and bruised ego.

In every grave, there’s an I,
subtly watching
for the apotheosis;
a moment of sickly-yellow violence
igniting once more
any excuse for a fight
for fame,
for a feeling.