I did not come with an instruction
Like a box that says,
"Fragile, handle with care."

Most of the time,
I am quiet and alone with my thoughts.
Sometimes, I am louder than the trucks honking in the freeway.

I am the calm in the middle of chaos.
I am also the storm itself.
I like logic,
But live to defy it.

My stories may not be all rainbow slinkies and polly pockets,
But I know,
I am made of miracles and chilly Sunday mornings.

I don’t know if this is relatable. I don’t know if it’s just me or a million others.
Do you ever have those days.

Those days, you know?

Those days where you’re so gone. 
You’re so not you, and sad, and alone, and empty that you want to try to **** yourself.
Not actually succeed though.

Those days seem to happen more often for me now.
Those days where you want to try to **** yourself because no one believes your sad until that point. 
Where the cliche thought of it’s for attention becomes true. 
Not for good attention though, just for anything. 
Just for your sadness to be validated because you don’t wear black anymore and your hair isn’t chopped off so you mustn’t be sad. 
Like the fact that you stopped cutting yourself means you must love yourself. Not like it was because you were tired of hurting your friends.

Maybe you haven’t stopped and you just still blame yourself. 
Maybe I’m still ******* sad even though I wear the color pink.
 Maybe I wear pink because I’m so ******* sad that I want someone to notice it. 
To see me. 
To listen and to really hear. 
Just for someone to understand that you’re there. 
That you’re real.
 That your plummeting into this hole of ******* self destruction and you just want someone to see it.

To know.

To understand.


Those days, come more often now. 
Those days scare me.
What scares me more though, is having a day where I don’t get stopped. 
A day that I don’t want to just try, a day where I want to succeed.

Realistically I know those days won’t come. 
I don’t want to try.
 I’m not going to try. 
I’m not going to do that to the people who care about me.
I won’t give up my chances of being happy like that.

One day I’m going to smile and realize that I forgot about those days.

That those days were just days, and not my life.


And that day, that’ll be the only one that matters.

I will ride this horse
Until I'm shot down
And even then I will
Crawl along the ground
Until I lift my eyes
And I can see that right
Has won the battle
Against greed and might.

I will pull myself up
Through blood and pain
Until not one square mile
Of hatred will remain.
I will call out those who
Label villainy other names
And strive to make them see
That evil is just the same.

Up to that precious day
I will never rest quietly
Until peace in our world
Shall lie and rest beside me,
Until this will come to pass
I, the discontented messenger,
Will point the way to integrity,
And be its constant harbinger.

Most days, I wear
my depression, my anxiety,
my PTSD, like Girl Scout badges
I proudly sewed on a sash
and wear on my uniform to Brownies.

Part of a girls' club for which
my member's card never came home from school
or the mail,
but the ceremony was held anyway.
Induction was never an option,
and the meetings are held every day.

Reciting the motto,
and finger painting it everywhere;
it's my identity more often
than it isn't.

There are others outside the club,
who say maybe those badges could be replaced,
one by one, with items that are
more worthy of what life becomes;
More worthy of topics of conversation, they will bring more joy;
More entertaining than ****, or abuse,
or why sadness lingers like strep in my throat
that cannot be cured with the strongest of antibiotics.

I just want to get a badge that says I learned how to skip today.
I blew bubbles and they flew and glimmered into the wind.
I played hopscotch and counted to ten while remembering to breathe
and reciting my favorite rhyme.

Cognitive distortions, and it's always been like this;
Water fountain eyes with no thirst-quenching,
bruises spreading out in hand-shaped marks around my neck,
whispering not to speak;
Mom says I'm just looking for attention, while wanting to shrink
with all the clothes that no longer fit;
Dad hits me when -

There I go again.

I'll dream in cotton candy color of a future that dissolves
honey sweet between my teeth:
Carefully I'll sew on badges saying I graduated,
held down a job,
and became something.

Most days I feel like I wear
my depression, anxiety,
PTSD, and issues
like a sash of girl scout badges that I proudly sewed on
and wear with my uniform to Brownies.

This is part of a girl's club
of which I've never wanted to be a member;
something much bigger than me,
replacing my personality,
that I just want to escape.

But I drown myself in it.
I paint it on myself
and it's my identity more often than it isn't.

That girl wearing the sash wants to replace those badges,
one by one,
with things that are more worthy of a life story;
More worthy of topics of conversation;
More entertaining than talking about my ****,
or my abuse,
or why I'm sad today.

I just want to get a badge that says I learned how to skip today.
I blew bubbles and they flew and glimmered into the wind.
I played hopscotch and counted to ten while remembering to breathe
and reciting my favorite rhyme.

It's always been like this.

Always crying eyes and sad stories and wishing I was invisible;
People asking me why I'm so quiet;
My mom saying I'm just looking for attention;
My dad hitting me when -

There I go again.

I don't want to write another sad poem.

I want to rise above it all.
I want to give sad people with sad faces like me hope.

Give me a day where I believe the sun will rise
and I will enjoy the sunset without fearing the dark.

first contact scenario
close encounters of the third kind
well how many
kinds are there anyway

a peaceful delegation
or an alien invasion

because alien we are
under threat of war

your burning desires
my best intentions
a clash
of unspeakable dimensions

this is not a game
we are
one misinterpretation
away
from mutual annihilation

you’d better tread lightly
I know I will