I got your message, Though it was never sent.
I heard it loud and clear.
Your silence cut through me, Sleep Evaded me and I could not tell you.
Tell you the roses that drape across the bed still have thorns.
that possessive wears the mask of a protector.
Teaching yourself to hold onto your protest so that he will still want you.
Confusing Love and Abuse, volunteering for the draft of his war.
Begging to become a causality of the love he claims to feel.
I've seen this, I've written these words once before.

and so they tell me,
"you don't deserve nice things"
well perhaps I'd be
inclined to agree
but here's the deal:
when **** gets real,
I don't give a **** what you think of me

and you're over the sea
so why should your opinion bother me?
I've dedicated far too much time
to two-faced, self-serving
insert profanity that rhymes;
if you don't love me,
that's fine
I'm over wanting people to be mine

"oh, read this, George thinks he's so cool"
no, not really
I'm just refusing to be some tool
that you think you can use.
oh, you miss me?
***** you, you ******* liar
I'm no ******* fool

grades aside, papers don't matter:
even if I'd failed school
I'd still have more brains than you,
so spin your lies
and think you're clever
but I've seen through them all
and I'm so much better
than you realise,
ah, your blind eyes

egotistical? maybe sometimes
just a little,
but at least I don't con the people I call friends
and when I say I have their backs
I have them 'til the very end.
see here's the ******* truth:
I'm always ******* honest,
so to stick to my word,
here's something I want heard:

I'm not gonna miss you, your stupid ways, or your empty words

When I was little,
I used to hate having my door closed,
I would scream and cry
In fear of what the shadows could hold.
I was afraid of a box
Where I’d be held hostage
Caged with a lock
And no key
Back then
That pain was like the sting of a bee.
Now at 17 I realize that I wasn’t afraid of the dark
I was afraid of depression
Making its mark.
I was afraid of the endless battle of trying to fall asleep
Not wanting to wake up
But not wanting to dream.
I was afraid of the hope I would lose in that battle
Afraid of the chains
That made my hollow bones rattle,
Because in the light of a new day
I’d stay inside
“I’m tired” I’d say,
But the truth was much simpler
Than a cheap fix
I am afraid of myself
And I can’t change it.

this is a letter to you
when reminiscing my past I always skip over the part with you in it to avoid my eyes becoming red and puffy and the big lump in my throat that I tend to get when thinking about the tallest building I can find to stop the memories from coming back to me
It won't **** me when my body hits the ground
When my bones turn to dust
When my blood splatters on the ground creating a beautiful art display for the people who are walking by
this is a letter to you
the one who killed me long before anything else could get the chance

I peer into the window
I cannot see anything
I pound my fists against the opaque glass, and shout "Let me in"
No one responds
All I can hear is the muffled and confused screams of familiar voices my mind cannot place
I attempt to open the window
It is locked
I desperately punch the window until my knuckles bleed
I scream to the ones on the inside  until my throat is raw
I need to go in
Though the window to my past has closed
Along with those I have left behind
Trapped on the inside

i am not yours to pursue,
nobody's to claim, to obsess over
you do not have the right to ignore my declination
nor to see my rejection as a challenge;
i am not a game or a puzzle
if you think my "no" is a jigsaw piece fitted in the wrong place
there for you to move and arrange
again and again
until you finally hear "yes"
then you are too much a child for my liking
too much about the conquest and not enough about the person.
my "no" will not be manipulated into a "yes",
you cannot play me into your hands

i am not a gamer, i am an artist
i will sketch thicker lines, make my "no" bolder
NO
i will add more tone, make it sterner
add more shade, allow my anger to cast shadows over your reputation
and it will not be hard to outline your true colours:
you've already revealed so many.
i don't need to paint you as a villain; you have done that much yourself
you too are an artist, in your own right...
you've smudged your lines so much, you've crossed boundaries.
your so-called love is not delicate pink―it is blood red and sticky.
your so-called affections leech the grey from my palette
and leave me seeing you in black and white.
oh, there's not much white, not much innocence
you are an all-consuming black; your desire to swallow me whole is abyssal

i will not be the reference of your portraits,
you cannot draw me in
your kind of passion disgusts me; you are not a true artist.
there'll be no soft brushes between us,
only sharp edges of craft knives
as i carve into your determination and soften that hardened clay
into something i can mould and shape,
something i can twist away from me.
six years is a long time for something to be set in stone
but i have a sledgehammer will and i refuse to feel backed into the corners
of your lustful foundations.
i do not wish to be a masterpiece in your eyes any longer.
i never asked you to admire me.
i will not be hung on your wall.

this is an open letter
for me to be able to say
i just don't think i can do this
anymore, because...
i just can't do this anymore

if i'm pulling away,
it's because i think i ****** up
or it's because you did
but i'm too self-loathing
to think i deserve an apology

you think you're so cool,
because you support
all the good causes
but your self-declared integrity
and morality, and importance--

it's all meaningless;
you are a ******* bully,
whether you realise it
or not,
the kind of kid that says
"i hate hypocrites,"

as you preach about trust
whilst lying
through your razor-sharp teeth;
you tear through others
like slabs of meat,
a ruthless carnivore
indulging on others' self-esteem

i can't do this anymore,
can't pretend your words
are water off my back,
**** it
if i wanted a shower
i'd go to the bathroom,

i don't need a shower
i'm already clean,
but you?
you're filthy, you disgust me
but i love you anyway
and that's why i can't do this

i'm sick of loving what makes me ill
so i'm not gonna talk,
not gonna listen,
not gonna offer myself up
for you to dig your knife and fork in.
i'm done with this.