Pull the trigger.

**** me.

So that I can no longer paint my emotions with lies.
Sometimes you just can't describe moments you only feel it


I was waiting for my prince but he never came.
So I went looking for him.

It's as strange as people go from lovers to strangers.
Do not bring love today,
I want your shame.


My hobby  now is to see depressed girls with pink wigs.

I need you to hurry up when you're going to make decisions.
Because I need you now.
Here on this terrace near the sea.
Looks like I'm lying on the seashore.



I wanted to be like God.
Have access to a door to the infinite of an unreal place.

To be honest, we all create an unreal world a surreal fantasy when we are rejected.

And so when the pain begins to flow, we look for ways to define love.


Do you think I'm a stupid girl?


Pull the trigger.

It ends my agony of not being able to love.

Pull out the rug.

Drop me into reality.

Sometimes people make us think we're on the test.

No one can see anyone's heart.
But we all have a concept of what the other feels.
No one can see the heart beating.
But everyone thinks we're alive.

Pull the trigger.

And I end up feeling like I'm repeating the same mistakes.
I do not want to have unreal feelings.
Get the feeling of being looking for nothing.

Pull the trigger

**** what's already dead

I sit in the waiting room until I hear my name
“Jennifer!?”
I stand and follow the nurse into the tiny room
As I sit she asks,
“Last name and date of birth”
She takes my blood pressure and temperature
“Do you feel safe at home?”
I answer yes for I live on my own.
I feel safest by myself.
“Any thoughts of suicide or self harm?”
A pause
“No” I quietly mutter outloud
And on she goes
Little does she know what’s going on inside my head
I can just imagine the look on her face if I had spilled out everything
“Well you see, I have extreme anxiety, I overanalyze every situation I’m in, I get panic attacks, I think about cutting at least twice a day, I contemplate suicide on the worst days and am depressed beyond belief
But you’d never be able to tell just by looking at me.
Even she wouldn’t know what to do.
No one would know what to do
Not even I
For I argue with myself every night
Back and forth
Back and forth
I don’t think I have the courage too
Every time I get close I just can’t.
Deep down I know the people who care about me would be devastated
Maybe one day it’ll all go away
And my mind will be clear
Maybe... just maybe

Do you ever wake up and feel like you haven’t slept a minute?
Do you look in the mirror and don’t recognize the person you see?
Do you go to your job and slug through the day?
Do you skip meals because all you want to do is sleep?
Do you let your mood swings ruin your day?
Do you snap at those you love?
Do you realize all these things but can’t muster the strength to fix it?
Do you cry yourself to sleep with the though of how much you hate who you’ve become?
Do you make plans to change but never follow through?
Do people leave you in the dust like you never even mattered?
Do you count down the hours until you can be alone
And then sit alone while you’re depression swallows you whole.
Do you wish things could go back to the way they were?
But deep down you know they never will.
Do you feel stuck
Or like you’re going into a fight blind?
You’ll come out with bruises yet you’ll do it again
Do you want to run your fingers across the blade?
But don’t because your loved ones will criticize you for it
How can I fix this?
Please someone tell me

A girl is *****, but wait for the punchline
Except it is not a joke,
And it is an actual punch
Hitting her left cheek

As I sit in a coffee shop,
Her story is being played
Through the speakers, while playing on the news
Everyone giving their own opinion

A couple of men sit at the table beside me
The bald one states that she asked for it
My eyes roll as a drop of coffee runs down my chin

The one with a large mustache laughs
States, "her mother was a failure."
The third man ignores his ignorant friends
But instead listens to the young girl's story

Bald one says her clothes were too tight
Mustached one states that the skirt was too short
Her knees were showing
Knees that are now bruised and ******

The third man states that it wasn't the
FAULT OF THE GIRL
But instead the FAULT of the man
He states that a woman should be able to wear
WHAT she pleases
WHEN she pleases

The bald and the mustached nod in agreement
One says that her clothes aren't the problem
The other says that women need RESPECT

As a woman, covered head to toe walks past
The men stare, except the third
Because it is not the woman's fault
And he understands that

But it is the FAULT of men
Who "cannot control it."

There once was a happy girl
But this happy girl disappeared around 13
When I slowly realized
That when people were laughing,
I was being laughed at and not laughed with
That I was not good enough
And that I was only going to be a joke
Boys constantly reminding me that my body
My body would never be good enough for them
And shouldn't be good enough for myself
I finally found a boy that accepted me
Only to find out that, because I hated myself
He believed that I would be an easy ****
He left bruises behind
But the bruises weren't on my skin,
Instead, left on my brain
Someone can touch me the wrong way now
Where I feel all of the emotions
Hand on my knee, hand on my thigh,
Hand on my waist, hand on my stomach
And I can instantly go blank
Like a soulless doll

*** I walk down the street
I get terrified if I see someone staring
Or just looking at me odd
I feel like I am walking around
With a target strung around my neck,
Being pulled tighter on my throat
I feel like I am being suffocated
By my own fear

Don’t expect me to say “I’m okay,”
because I started to go to therapy.

Don’t expect me to smile
because I stopped hurting myself.

Don’t expect me to heal
when I can’t go a day without the thought.

Don’t expect anything from me,
you’ll be greatly disappointed.

And don’t expect me to say thank you
when you stay,
I’m too selfish to say anything.

Or maybe I can’t talk, move my lips to form words,
haven’t you noticed?

And now that I’m here,
I can’t even cry without fear cradled next to the tears.
No, no crying for me. Not again.

Don’t expect me to leave my dorm,
When out there, I can’t hear their voices,
because somehow those who don’t know anything about me
make me the most comfortable.

Don’t expect me to say the truth “I’m empty and lost and emotionless and apathetic and so full of nothing, I don’t know how to break,”
because I go out from my dorm
or go to class or any of the clubs.

And expect me to say “I’m fine.”

I seem to reward myself for bad behavior, and while others don’t understand it to be bad, it gnaws at me. Grows like a tumor, because even if an accident, or happenstance, I still seem to shrink, but not before my body rebels and solidifies into making me gorge on fiber until I lose the nerve and rush to other means. I’m not supposed to do it on purpose, not like Lori, and I hold myself back, convinced that my weight-loss is not an extension of my personality, but I cant help but admit I’m obsessed with the scale. Obsessed with an anti-me. My therapist doesn’t see the pattern, and maybe she is right, but I am too busy worrying about becoming obsessed that I have become obsessed with being obsessed. A hundred and seven pounds, and I have had to seriously fight to control myself not to create harm, and when my stomach doesn’t seem to want to let go of food after days, I can’t help but go to my medicine cabinet, find the laxative, and let my body suffer in such an embarassing way.

I watched Lori do it, and I swore I wouldn’t. But I am, even if for the sake of relief, of release. And I swear it’s not a habit, but that means nothing come every Monday when I have to be the beacon at the group weigh-ins, to mark some kind of false sense of hope for others. They call me an inspiration, and even if not intentional, I feel like I have been cheating.

My grandfather asks me every time I tell him about my weight-loss, “Are you sure you aren’t hurting yourself?” and I am reminded of the decades of humiliation he wrought upon me due to my obesity. What right does he have to ask of harm when he helped drive me to four hundred and more pounds? Maybe this is punishment for all the times his words cut deep enough to make me keep eating in anguish. Maybe I’ll just keep losing long after I hit my goal until there is nothing left– not even dust to be carried along with the wind.

Thoughts like that make me worry that it has evolved from lifestyle change to pure, unadulterated obsession. The kind I have seen time and time again.

My family has always been riddled with addicts.