A few forgetful moments
And I am littered with paper cuts.
Each tear is a page: a meaning: a reason.

I am encased with quilts and a
Bubbling love, but the chills
And demons find their way through.

I was told
Explicitly
To pull my head out of my ***,
Because struggling with education, depression, and
Harassment
Is inconvenient for others.

I forgot to reline the trash can in the bathroom.

Dear diary,
I almost hurt myself again today. Its been over ten months since I did it last, but you know what a ***** life is.
See ya later!

***** reminds me of rainbows,
And vice-verse.
My stomach is thunder.

I don't have enough tears to make it rain,
But I might **** enough.

What should I do with my life?
I make decisions and
Work my *** off more than any
16 year old I know,
And care for others in any way I can
In hope that they will return the favor when I need it,
But I'm still ignorant and selfish, says she.

Sometimes I wonder which way is up
And right. A nervous tick of mine.
A moody strand of my being.
Trying to connect to reality, but curving...

i don’t think there are things quite like this:
quite like ocean-breathing. quite like soft
hearts and softer fingers. quite like hands
strong and hair pulled.
kiss me until i forget her name. push me
on my knees in the hallway—breathe me;
breathe me; breathe me.
i don’t think there are things quite like this:
quite like “take it off”. quite like “****, ****,
you’re—”. quite like “how much **** would
you get for this hickey?”.
give me mouth to neck to hands to back.
give me soft, give me softer, harder. give
me all teeth, all fingernails, all scratch and
no soothe.
i’m not drunk but i might as well be; you
have never been an instrument i knew how
to play well enough to perform. i’m on my
knees and then not anymore and i’m not
one for praying but i feel like this is the
moment i ask god when i turned into
something so close to an exit wound
even my mother wouldn’t recognise me
anymore.
i don’t think there are things quite like this:
quite like trembling so hard the china might
scatter on the floor like ashes. quite like
“i’m not just using you”. quite like whispers
so soft they seem to go up in smoke.
he kisses my neck and i go weak in the knees
but i feel like i would be strong enough to
withstand a hurricane like this. he kisses
my neck and his hand is on my hip and
i think about how sometimes a flood brings
more than it takes away and i think
that’s you. i think that’s you. sometimes
i wonder if i could be like that for you
too.
you see, i don’t think there are things
quite like this:
quite like shaking but still. quite like
cold but willing. quite like you.

Look if you don't like my poetry
That's perfectly ok,
Lord knows I'm such a failure,
And they **** anyway!

I hereby declare
That you shall not have a fare
Towards this land of beauty and fair
For you have put me in despair
Never have I been so clear
To put you out of here

its funny how
desperately
you wanted to
take my heart
away from me
and now you're
just throwing
it away like
your old cds

Just got called trash, but let me tell you something...
...after real **** goes down,
Trash don't belong on the floor

sweet sucker of crushing cruelty,
dripping my sanity to the very last bit.

you come and go as you please,
leaving destruction in your path
in the form of poetry.

i cry at the fires you set,
and rebuild myself again;
***** myself with a pen,
and start, begin to end.

i'm running out of arteries to slice,
not having you puts my thoughts on ice.

i'd like to think you keep me from
burning the whole world down,

that sweet, sweet song
brighter than the mountain's sound.

that silly metaphor about
weights being on your shoulder,
always holds true,

because whether it's you
and love
and lies
and hope
and smoke
and tears
and water
and fire

all that pain,
it inspires.