i watch people throw those three words
around like they're nothing but decoration.
'i love you' spilling out in the middle of the night,
instead of 'thank you for listening'.

'i love you' instead of 'i like us',
because nobody wants to feel unloved,
and nobody wants to admit they're afraid
of being alone, of being forgotten.

so he says those words to her, trusting
that when she says them back, she'll mean them.
it seems that he hopes that when he says those words,
that she'll stay; that she'll continue to love him.

but what if, in the end, we're all lying?
what if we're all pinning those words in hopes,
hopes that they will stay, and we plaster on a smile,
hoping that they can love us, as we need.

broken and left behind, we pin our hopes
onto those three little words and we listen intently
for them to be said back. we seem to trust, all too much,
in the shared words.

but, when we find out that things won't work,
and the relationship crumbles, we struggle to be okay.
we lose the hope that someone can love us as we need,
we lose the hope that we can love as someone else needs.

I flee in fear as the enemy grows near,
I stumbled as a bullet passes my ear.
I stand, I turn running away with a tear,
I fall down as if I was hit with a spear.

I took on this war a long time ago,
With myself I had hoped that I could grow.
I lay down beginning to rot away,
The hours passed as I begin to fade.

I wake up and I see these wounds of mine,
Glowing as if I was filled with such life.
Slowly my wounds begin to heal and fade,
And such I begin to fight another day.

Never did I knew that that day drew near,
As I remember those days fleeing in fear.
Now I stand and fight my demonic night,
And I shall die with my tears shining bright.

I lay in this self-made grave from a self-made war,
Yet again my heart glows as if being revived.
I faced myself and gave myself a scar.
Yet it was healed by an angel from afar.

She has never taken a silver spoon to the contents of her head,
or buried her body in a lover's empty bed.  

She is not the old jacket hanging on the back of the chair-
but the inhabitant, a throne's rightful heir.
I imagine a life where there are no ghosts in the mirror;

when friends talk about their fathers, there's no bile in her throat-
the thought of spilling the contents of her stomach is an unfunny joke.
She doesn't change into her clothes as if a gun ha
d been pulled,

or dream of Icarus’ voice, “Jump” he goads
She looks both ways before crossing the road.

Her fingers don't pry at a laceration's half-hearted mend
or dig into her womb when the wind howls for her end.

Substances don’t brush away her thoughts,
Or birth them again.

This stranger version of me-
probably so easy to understand-
not a martyr in the least.

However,
I imagine without these callous grooves in my flesh;

I couldn't figure out how to fill the empty spaces of others
or hide myself
just right
under the covers.

her hair falls down her back and
glistens as she flaunts passed me
confidently

she has new jeans and heels that click down the hallways announcing her
arrival

she smiles at everyone and it is so
clean and beautiful that you can't help
but stare

her skin is smooth like the girls'
in the commercials that flash on your
screen

if i am compared to a daisy in a field
of roses then she is the earth
in which they sprout from

she is the definition of lady like
while I am the elbows on the table
at dinner time

she is the girl next door
the one you marry and have at least
2.5 children with

i am the one who has whispered
curses and disappointing stares to
define her

she is not sugar and honey but instead
is the combination of lavender and pine

relaxing and natural

i am hours in the mirror
staring at my reflection wondering
when will it start answering back

she doesn't own a mirror for fear
that she will behave selfishly
because looking at yourself is vain

i think looking at myself
is punishment that i was so wrongly
convicted with

but my paroles aren't short lived
it's a constant voice in my head
saying i'll never be like her

she is everything i am not
because i am not like her
but i want to be

What if I told you
I want to die?
That I'm tired of living,
of being alive?

What if I said
it gets worse at night?
The thoughts get louder
and everything seems wrong

What if I told you I lied
when I said I was fine?
When I said I'm fine, how are you,
I was actually crying on the inside.

What if I lied
and said everything is alright
No, I'm not crying,
I swear I'm fine.

What if I tried to take my life?
Would you send me to rehab?
Hoping the doctors would fix me,
and everything would be fine?

What if I told you hope is dumb?
That hope is a stupid thing to have
Because when I have hope,
everything falls apart.

What if I told you I lied, again, when I said I was better?
That I only said that so you wouldn't worry?
Well,
I did.

What if I said to you,
I've hated myself since the age of 9?
That I wish you could've helped,
before it was too late?

What if I succeeded in killing myself?
I doubt anyone would cry.
Would you even care,
If I took my own life?