22 tablets I've swallowed.
Only I knew what followed.

22 insults I've been given.
I promised myself I wouldn't give in.

22 lies to cover my scars.
I connect the dots like the stories of the stars.

22 arguments I've been in.
Whenever they're over I plaster on a grin.

22 gashes across my skin.
I'm dizzy now. My head starts to spin.

22 droplets of blood on the floor.
They look a little lonely, how about some more?

22 people who lied and deceived me.
To open my heart, you'd need the key.

22 bruises, marking my body.
I can't look in the mirror, I appear gaudy.

22 poems, left unread.
I'll be thinking of that as I lay on my deathbed.

22 stabs to end my life.
I smile and brandish my knife.

I know it's hard for you.
I know you try but you can't possibly understand what it's like to have the weight of someone else hold you down and pull consent from your lips like the lyrics of their favorite song.

I sat in the shower until my skin itched and burned a smoldering red and the water ran cold because all I wanted was to feel CLEAN again.
I packed up everything I loved and drove hundreds of miles to feel SAFE again.
I will not lie to you...... both of those things have yet to happen.

And I know it's hard for you.
Because you are strong and people believe what you say.
You have never had to defend your innocence and purity.
You never had to defend what you were wearing. Even to bed.

So I understand what you mean when you tell me it gets better.
But YOU don't actually know this.
You don't know what it's like to wake up every night from the same nightmare.
Sweating and crying because for some reason yo think he's still there.
The weight of his body holding you down and drawing consent from your lips like his favorite song.

I know it's hard for you.
But have you ever considered that it's harder for me?

where will i find myself in two years?
barely dragging myself out of bed every morning
alone and stressed to the point of snapping?

or, maybe, somehow

i will wake up every morning
likely exhausted
but happy.

happy.
that’s a thought.
a fleeting, fickle thought,
but a thought nonetheless.
i don’t remember the last time i could say
“i’m happy”
without it being at least partially a lie.

i’m just used to it now.
when we had to write lists for inspiration
so we could write this poem
one of the lists was “5 things i am an expert in”
and number 3 on my list
was depression!

number 5 was falling in love.
falling in love.

falling in love is my saving grace.
my love has found me
broken, ******, and bruised.
not my bones
but my heart
shattered into too many pieces
broken glass
that cuts anyone who tries to come near it.

most people leave when they realize that.
one adopted me, but that’s just what she does.
but my love didn’t leave.
she found my bruises and wounds
and bandaged them
and somehow
fell deeper in love with me.

thank you.

Tonight my mom is having a manic episode just like I do.
Passed down from generation to generation is a shadow , a void deep within our minds.
I feel ill and twisted. Like the vines growing in my veins , growing thicker and begging to burst. Just so dark crimson can run down my arms , my legs , my eyes. Fading into black and growing thinner. Falling onto dimly lit tiles and rising up as dark smoke.
I am suffocated by my thoughts that are slowly blending into real life. Like paint that is every color of the rainbow being swirled together until it turns sickly green brown, like my eyes.
I admire an iris that hasn't been tainted like mine , diluted , dripping. Eyes that haven't seen what I have as a little hopeless child. A happy child , a sad child , a broken child. It was too real. Too bright and blinding to be nothing.
Shining into my pupils , traveling into my soul, reflecting my being for the world to see. I am ashamed.
I was weak, I am weak. I am sorry mom and dad. That your pain has made me and not your joy.
A product of dark memories and buried thoughts. I tried to hide it, so I wouldn't become worse.
I can't ever promise I will love myself and who I let myself become. The scars have burned too deep; but I will always love you.

I cannot thank my younger self enough for being strong enough to keep the urges from my face.
I remember feeling so damaged and ugly that I would dig my fingernails into my cheeks to keep the demons at bay.
There were so many times I held the razor in front of my face, thinking that maybe cutting it might make me feel pretty.

And that is so ****** up.

Today I am so angry, it is rattling my bones.
My body shakes and an earthquake of tears escape my eyes.
It's so bad that I contemplated taking out an old friend and ripping apart my skin.
But I can't **** up two years.
I can't **** up my pretty.