“Show us your scars”
When they should’ve said shame  

“Point on where it hurts”
Yet they couldn’t find a cure

“Have you been thinking about death?”
Like my thoughts wander to anything else

“Just take this pill in the morning”
But I‘m up every morning

“You’re safe here”
I felt their eyes under my skin

“Have you assaulted anyone in your life?”
Can’t they see that I‘m the victim here

“Can we send you home without worrying?”
As if I can guarantee them my life,
as if I have a home

“Bring your mother with you in the next session”
But I’m in therapy because of her  

“Have you considered electroshock therapy?”
And now they want to cause me more trauma

“How many times have you attempted suicide?”
“Enough times to believe that I have already died” I said finally

oh, the wind
           it knocks now on
         my sliding glass door
     the same door that causes me to lay awake at night
         the knocking, i don't like it
                                     no, not one bit

is it the wind?
           or is he back?                               has he found me?
                                          is he going to hurt me again?

          i                  the
                 fear        
                                        wind

Choked out by the forces that make me scream
Face shoved into the dirt
Boot, between my shoulder blades
Exist in the perfect cacophny of crying and failed escapes

Dragging me into the rivers of salt lined water
Tears don't form when you are underwater
So drown the innocence out of me so I can't think past the smell of dirt
Cover my throat with a shirt, and wait for me to emerge

The sound of a snap, and a flash
I am trapped, kept from coming clean with a photograph
Curled into a ball, trapped in time
Bound in that awful grime

Listening to "Dance Hall Drug" realizing the meaning
And suddenly my head is bleeding
The clock has turned red, and I've lost my head in a guillotine
It's okay, just light a match and watch me disappear; I'm kerosene

I'm easy to control, with a photo
And I'm just an average depressed ****
Drowned into the person I should be
And I guess I am the best depressed verision of me, lost at sea

Clamate dolor

People don't hear the true ****
They hear the pretty depressing ******* I feed to you
In stanzas and well made lines

I hide a-lot in these pill pockets of truth of mine
Like the fact that I undercounted my attempts of suicide
I've failed attempts at home before, but no one would know

Or I've been sexually assaulted more than once
But no one could know the real ****
Because I'm sure it's a turn off

No one gives a **** about the unraveling poet
No one would notice if I stopped posting
It's the curse of writing

The world tries to sweep me under the rug
Even on watt-pad, if you notice, there's no tag for suicide
And the depressing books, get swept aside for the Romance and Fantasy

I can say my work helps others, but that's not true
I can say my kindness makes a difference, but no one notices me
My actions don't do ****, and it's evident by the way people treat me

I am invisible, I am in hiding
I am lying to myself when I say there is hope for me
I should have known from the beginning, people like me don't get happy endings

People see a boy dressed in all black, and suddenly, he's up to no good
It doesn't matter if he always smiles at people and says good morning
It doesn't matter if he works hard to get a good education, and puts in effort

He's dressed in black, so he's not good enough
The world doesn't want to change, and it shows
Why try to change when the world just doesn't care?

I am a statistic, a grade, a number; I am not a person
I am not a friend, a son, or a brother
I am just a name written on paper, I am just a word

There is no hidden meaning to "Gray"
There is no meaning to the word
There is no meaning to me

If I don't show up today, would anyone notice?
How long would it be until people started wondering?
Or would I just become an urban legend

If I die today, would anyone come to my funeral
Or would it be empty, with just my body waiting to be buried
Would people bring flowers I actually like, like a Nymphaea nelumbo, a cherry blossom, or cacti

Or would I just get carnations, the boring ones
Would people give fake speeches about how they knew me
How "great of a person I was" when they'd never spoken to me

When I die, this poetry is the only thing that will suggest the truth
It'll be my defensive to the "I had no idea" argument people love to pull out
When you did, everyone did, I'm kind of ******* obvious

Yet I'm still holding onto our secret
I'm still shut up about your crime
I'm still pretending it never happened like a good little victim

But no one gives a ****, I doubt you even know my name
I doubt you even remember what you've done
And I hope my death makes you feel guilty as ****, well, if you remember me

The world doesn't care about "victims", "survivors", or "warriors"
or whatever else the world decides to call us
They care about making a quick buck, and getting a bit of fame

Shove us into the spotlight to make you look good
Use us for attention, money, and publicity, but I'm sure
It's all out of the goodness of you heart, right?

The truth freaking *****
But I won't apologise for speaking up
Cause I'm the one no one notices anyway, right?

Your beastly desires were always hidden beneath
A calm and cool exterior, hiding truth
You waited and hunted me, tracked me
And watched me as your intentions stayed aloof,
Preparing to at last spring your vicious trap
Cleverly laid in the deep woods of passion
You are a beast, who stalks this once lush forest
And I am your prey, lying dead in trees now ashen

who are
we?












dead stars
victims of
commercial wars

I screamed
Hoping someone would be awake
To hear the sound of damage

If not me
I wanted to alert the rest
Of the predation I became the victim to

Because you were the kind of guy
They don’t warn you about
You’re the kind they praise

The one who gets into the house
Uninvited but welcomed
Because you know how to make them smile
Slowly infesting the heads
To get into cold beds
Because you enjoy the *******
You enjoy the art of treachery
The idea of being good at one thing
Feeding on the muffled, “Please”
But you don’t stop
Not until you fill blood in the crease
You’re ruthless, and you’re proud of it

The dark doesn’t scare me anymore.
I don’t see your face in my dreams.
The panic attacks are gone.
The night terrors are too.
Often, I walk through
that park. On my
way to spit
on your
grave