Emotions are hard
Hard to feel
Hard to share

It’s so much easier to offer a mirror
And let others
              See what they want to see
              Hear what they want to hear

Offering authenticity is complicated
                    Snarled
Full of light
              and dark
                       and confusion

Sometimes I don’t want to look
I don’t want to see
I don’t want to know

                   I don’t want to feel

But a shallow existence only works for so long
To grow, we must grow roots
To connect, we must reach out

Will you be worthy of my truth?
Will you face it with me?
Will you meet my vulnerability with your own?

I can only wish
And hope
And believe

That you will

hand me that one—
To hold in hand,
whisper my heart
within its pores.
To share my whims:
dresses I wore
sometime long past.

I dare not peek
To peel its peel,
study the lines
upon its raw.
To see the same:
summers now soil
this time in palm.

If while unveiling my vulnerability,
I collapse into smithereens
Will you hug me tight enough,
To help my broken pieces stick back together?
 
If while wearing a fake smile,
And dissembling my true emotions
Will you try and understand what I feel?
Will you not compel me, to not be me?
 
If while being veracious to me,
I fall in love with you
Will you fall in love with me too?
Will you not leave me, like others eventually do?

The first time I contemplated suicide was at the age 13.
Sleeping pills. Just like mom.
I wanted to dream forever.
Many more occurrences followed that year.

The next was at the age of 15.
Cutting. Finally had the courage.
I took a broken shard of glass and I
Finally found the anger inside of myself.

Following that was the age of 17.
Self inflicted pain. Heartache seemed worse at the time.
I dug my nails into my skin.
Making scars seemingly physical now.
I finally found a way to release the pain.

Last night,
I contemplated suicide.
I promised that I wouldn’t go through with it.
But who cares?
Who could stop me?
Who would want to?

I’m happy.
I swear, I am.
You know I am.
I only fake it a little bit.  

But sometimes,
I don’t think I can do this anymore.
I don’t think I can live anymore.
At least not by myself.

I hated myself,
And time and time again.
The hate seeps through the bleeding cuts.

Sometimes I starve myself.
Sometimes I hurt myself.
Sometimes I hate myself.  

Sometimes I contemplate suicide.

But tonight
I cut the pen into paper.
Bleeding out my vulnerability in hopes to die poetically.

Must there be the voice of an old man
To be inspired by wisdom?
Must there be intelligible words
To guess out the intention?
Must there be vulnerability
To presume the proper truth?

　　There ain’t a single channel
　　On the interface of dialogue.

Must we lie only in whispers
To keep hurt under the seal?
Must we sigh only in earnest
To show others where we bleed?
Must we die only in peace
To pass the torch with ease?

　　There ain’t a single channel
　　On the interface of dialogue.

curly toes and fingernails twice as thick
with old banana peel dried and crusted
jarred underneath
skin that tastes like plastic
a distraught girl with flowers growing
out of her head
eyes bleeding onto the pavement
but the heart is still beating
am I supposed to make sense
or are you
I said it’s time to go
but the doctor told me I’m fine
so I went to another
maybe five
and they all said the same thing
make sure you’re walking the dog
and that the dog’s not walking you
well maybe I want the dog to drag me
raw across the pavement
just know my hearts still beating