so fixated on the idea of a father, just lately;
he's got a firm clasp on his own mouth
to stop himself from spilling,
wishing he could grip hard enough to
leave bruises
without thinking "look at me, becoming him"

pathetic, is what it is
shuts himself down with bitter thoughts and cruelty.
how ridiculous to look at mother's new boyfriend—
who she isn't even official with yet,
who she's only known for maybe four months—
and silently wish, more than wonder
"will i be calling you dad one day?"

his own dad, such a disappointment
that sometimes it gives him headaches,
trying to figure out who's more of a violent failure:
himself, or his father.
he has an ego the size of the moon
that compensates for his overwhelming insecurities
and hides his vulnerabilities;
but he can't escape his own self-loathing when there's
no one
to put on a show for

and since he grew up spending most of his days
alone and self-reliant

loneliness has been the best father he could ever ask for

I know what it must be like
to deal with me;
but I assure you
it's not as hard
as dealing with being me.

I simultaneously push people away,
keep them at a distance with falsities
designed to prevent incidents
like people actually getting to know the real me

and wish they knew enough to understand
why

why it is that I grew to become this.

He says he's getting feelings,
and I'm oblivious to what he means
even as my skin prickles and itches,
like there are flies crawling over it
and leaving their grubby, microscopic footprints behind.

He gets nasty about it,
and then I get it. Funny, that:
I only ever understand things
once demonstrated with aggression,
violence.
Or maybe not so funny at all.

And it's funny, because I just
don't believe him, and yet I do
at the same time.
He's a player and a cheat, but
he has a heart as he tells his side of the stories,
and I kiss his frown away.

Funnier still: they all have words to say about
him―the player, the cheat, the *******, the guys that
leads their friends on-
they talk about him
as if he dangles bait from the end of a string
in front of starving mice
so he can snap them up in his jaws and
swallow them whole,
only to spit them out later,
mangled and broken.

Perhaps a little like him.

I think they forget he has feelings too.

Even funnier still that
I feel like I'll be the one that breaks his heart
because I'm all well and good for liking him,
but my heart belongs to another,
and my friends, they like me, think me better
than the way I advertise myself;

I know they're wrong, because I know myself.
Always without intention, though often
without remorse, too,
I break the people closest to me,
snap them like twigs,
chew them up like defenseless mice
between my gnashing teeth,
and spew them up later
with the bile-burn of self-loathing,
mangled and broken.

Perhaps a little like me.

I think I forget I have feelings too.

i was happier a few months ago.
sadder, too, more depressed; but happier
with myself,
with my face,

with my body
(even if i didn't realise it;
"you never know what you have
until it's gone"
is true.
scrawny, underweight body,
sharp cut cheekbones,
jaw practically pushing out of my skin—i miss you guys)

my mornings were dedicated
to porridge
and being on time for college,
and coffee so dark, my friends asked:
"what's the point of using milk?"

the point, my friends, is that
even though i am dark
and bitter,
with a temper so hot
i have to spit it out
(in insults, in graphic descriptions of premeditated ******)
lest it scald my tongue—

there is still some good within me.
not much,
but there it is:
just enough to taste it
if you close off other senses and
focus. really focus.

i think it is about time
i sought out my self-destructive
methods of
happiness
once again.

i am tired
of feeling like my own enemy
when
i am already certain

that the world is out to get me.

maybe you put too much faith in me

i'm agnostic, apathetic, aromantic
and too much of an antagonist to never let you down

you could drown me,
make me suffer for my attitude;
but i'll not atone for my sins

remorse is for the empathetic
and i am just

empathetic minus the em

don't reprimand me
for doing as you do.

we both wear the wounds of warriors
on our skin like faded tattoos—

warriors, not survivors,
still fighting for our lives.

don't reprimand me
for doing as you do.

i know the bitter taste of hypocrisy
as well as you do;

we perpetuate these cycles
like we just can't help ourselves

and the way you speak of yourself,
some broken poem in love with its pain, hurts me

i will be angry, and i will lash out
i do not know how to function normally

emotions?
no thank you.

sociopath, little boy, *******, pathetic apathetic *******
what a ******* i am,

what does the label matter?
all of it overrides my love; you've made that clear.

what a failure,
always breaking the things i care about

like they cost nothing,
even though i feel the debt deep down.

i try, i try so hard to fix them,
to make up for sins that i didn't even commit

but

all i end up doing is adding my own to the list.

All along I hid my face, my arms, my thighs and all too well my gut.
Because in this modern day,
The bigger your gut was the
Less You're able to still enjoy yourself. Let alone another human being.

From grade five
The girls learn that boys
Only like the pretty things in life.
Pretty eyes, pretty nose, pretty hair, and pretty smiles.

In grade six
Girls pick up sticks and stones while they break their bones all for a sense of acceptance of a few classmates.

In grade seven
When they tell you your pretty "isn't pretty enough"
You learn how to hide.

In grade eighth
You tuck in your gut, you fake a smile, and continue to glare at the girls
Who just always seem to get the time of day.
When you go home and stare into the mirror and start to count. You count for the days to come , were your smile is just right. Your clothes seem to fall perfectly. When the cute guy saves you a seat.
You count and wait to be perfect.

But the thing about perfection is
No body is.

it's taken me this long

Grade twelve.

To figure that out.

i'm sick and tired of these mind games.
you push me away and pull me back
like a yo-yo, or an emotional punching bag
(what's the difference anymore anyway?)
always in equal measures
but i've never felt more imbalanced

i hate you for assuming things
i hate you for making me feel things
you think you're the only victim in this?
you're wrong
and every ounce of my self loathing could never make you seem right

i'm tired of your every word hitting home
i'm tired of the way your anger breaks my bones
i'm tired of feeling like every move i make is a mistake
i'm tired of you making me ill

for ****'s sake
just leave me alone
(don't)

Rattling of a pill bottle fill the silence
And I don't realize how desperately
I long for anything but the silence
Until it's gone.

What is wrong with me?
I'm holding on to how things used to be
Because letting go has never been my thing
But I think it's time,
And I'm scared
Letting go means finding more to fill that,
Silence
And I'm not sure I can.
I'm not sure I can...
What is wrong with me?

Barely a week clean
And I'm already craving
When can I stop this **** self hatred,
And learn to love myself?
As opposed to harming myself.
What is wrong with me?

Why do I always jump to feelings of anger, sadness, and irritability?
Why do I long for physical pain so intensely?
Why do my thoughts of self loathing present so vividly?
What is wrong with me?

I'm a tragedy, really.
A piece of artwork, pulled apart at the seams
A kind heart that's torn up, scratched and bleeding
But you could never tell, for looks are deceiving
What is wrong with me?

I have help.
I know people care.
But the last person also told me they'd always be there,
And where the **** are they now, definitely not here
And I know not everyone's the same,
But it's one of my biggest fears
What is wrong with me?

I long for the day
Tears spill from my eyes
My heart's ripped into pieces, and I'm feeling betrayed
But the last thing I wanna do is reach for the blade
Because I'll be stronger than that.

But letting go has never been my thing.
So I'm stuck holding on to how I used to think


*What the hell is wrong with me?