my eyes are tired
wish i could sleep
smells of coffee
and cologne that's cheap
the clicking of nails
on the slick wood table
everything i do
is so unstable
a sound from my stomach
i'm really hungry
looking in the mirror
the reflection's ugly

It's not Your fault; You're just the epitome,
The manifestation of this society,
Or maybe the race as a whole -
From start to end, You played this role.

After all, was not Noah the sole fool
Who loved the Lord and became His tool?
And the sinful world around him jeered -
Lonesome Noah was thought quite weird.

You represent all my social trauma,
My insecurities and highschool drama.
You have everything I want to be.
I lie in chains but you are free.

Socrates, too, was condemned by You,
Killed with poison for the truth he knew.
You said it was for the good, but no,
It was Your pride that acted so.

You're popular, sporty, pretty, small.
I'm lonely, artsy, ugly, tall.
You do bad things and the teachers love you.
I do my best and... nothing.

Jesus was rejected by his own kind,
The Jews who had once been blind.
They mocked Him who deserved their praise,
Thanked His mercy with a wooden raise.

You're showy, bratty, loud, and cruel.
I'm nervous, friendly, quiet, a fool.
Wherever you go, you find friends.
I act like you and my hole deepens.

No, I'm not Noah nor Socrates,
Not Jesus or who else you please,
But I'm in a similar boat as they.
Tears and pain wash me today.

All the pain I feel inside my heart
Is worsened when You play Your part.
You're like all the others, but I chose
The model as the cause of my woe.

envy
such an UGLY word
yet I wear it well
I won't lie
it fits like a glove most days
appreciation
a thing of pure BEAUTY
though out of my price range
becoming more rare
than finding true love

It was December and the sun rested upon its cloud.
night.
I sang in the shower that night. I even combed through my messy curls. More pulling than combing. But I combed.
In the mirror. My reflection. It glanced at me and smiled back and even had the same beauty mark upon its lower cheek. We were the same.
I wondered what it was like to be the least favorite in the garden.
Did roses think lily’s were ugly? Roses were beautiful.
sad. Upon some time you would grow lonely. Tired. Un whole.
Empty. I was empty because I felt ordinary.
I was ordinary nothing too good. Not anything bad. Ordinary.
In afternoons walking past the roses I saw myself as a Dandelion. The ugly one.
The ugly duckling. The ugly flower. The ordinary.

This constant battle of tug-of-war with the universe has taught me to be cognisant,
Of how fragile I am between the few good moments,
Moments where I’ve forgotten what it feels like to be suffocated by these four walls,
The same four walls that have seen and heard every one of my downfalls.

Its funny how one word can pull the trigger to a lifetime of memories,
I’ve spent so much time isolating them but they come up just as easy,
The days I spent sitting on the cold, bathroom floor with slits on my wrist,
Never expecting to wake up the next morning or live through another night like this.

Each morning is a guessing game of which body part I hate the most;
Will my thighs, my arms or hairy legs be looked at and called “gross”?
The razor sitting in my top drawer rattles and calls out my name,
Will today be the day I carve out hateful messages and sit out in pain?

I try to block out the thoughts that are circling in my mind;
Pointing their daggers at my back and slowly killing me from the inside,
My heart feels heavy as I put on a smile and thank god that I’m alive,
We both know that i’m lying but at least I can convince myself, even if it's just for a while.

i am living in a suit
i have been for quite some time
the real me is underneath
but i cannot break through
this has become apart of me
that i cannot get rid of
i cannot retire from this suit
and this is because
of food

That my first love was the perfect blue eyed, blond haired cherub is the error of my socialization, proved by the stained yellow of my newly-dulled canines and how there’s ****** pestilence we know and deny that I‘ve come to love
All the rot
And the “Memento Moris”
Because they are all the stuff that I imagine makes the color of her grotesque foot, pressed plainly to my spine like to any ladybug she would’ve otherwise made Love to.
So you may understand that the most attractive thing in the world would be to see her undone.

I won’t say this isn’t perverse for Love.
I love her so much I can despise who she’s become, her skull, a tomb robbed of fresh thought, her gems scraped off like scabs to decorate a destitute grapevine, then plucked and fed to the Noble she owes her fair hair.

“Circumstance. There’s only circumstance to blame.” I once cried about it, my lips craving only to move in tandem again with hers. So parroting was the next best thing.
Until I crushed peaches to try and be rid of her, which is why my ***** tastes of them every time now.

I recall crow’s feet, pressed to my groin, apropos of all I didn’t escape.
So I say, “I adore you” to My Emetophobic Girlfriend to be safe, so Love can stay reserved for the fantasy,
Where “silver lining” is less often the sole, desperately perceived pretty glint offered by the carving knife, since buried in bleeding beef, the raw nerves chastened by death... or anything else so depressing.

My first love became a neutered pet,
Gutted of her Love for me by her best friend’s fishknife fingernails and steel-eyed judgement, instructed, “Be Better.”

She told me things she’d never told anyone,
Then told me, “Remember me as you wish.”
So I cling to the fleeting memory of her perfume, yet am haunted nonetheless by her last words.