She's staring at her favorite scarf and weeping away at her life.
Mother doesn't love her,
Father doesn't understand her.
And the image of her scarf is constantly appearing in her mind.
She has come to the conclusion that she'd look best wearing it,
Hanging from one foot from her ceiling.
Funny how something meant to make someone so warm,
Can be used to make a body stone-cold.
Should she wear the scarf with butterflies on it?
Or the one her sister gave her for Christmas,
The day they stopped talking to each other altogether?
Should she wear the one she wore on her first date with him,
Or is that too much?
Mother is screaming at her,
Telling her that her room is too cluttered.
There are scarves laying everywhere on the ground,
The girl is comfortable with it.
But I wonder what she'd do when her mother sees her cluttered mind.
"Mom, how does this scarf look on me?"
The girl will ask from up above,
Or maybe down below.
But she won't care, because she's too preoccupied with the girls flaws.
Her room gets too explosive,
Shes not exactly like the mothers firstborn.
She hangs out with friends too often to avoid being home.
Scratch that, at her house, because a home is where the heart is,
But all I see are carbonated feelings being bottled up,
And shaken,
But the girl doesn't dare pop open the cap.
Now the mother is pushing the girl away
And throwing everything she has,
Both literally and figuratively,
And the mother officially wages a war against the girl.
The mother is armed with the girl's dear father,
And her words,
And all the girl has to offer are scarves.
She has an assortment of 13 exactly,
But she doesn't know which one to wear.

something about the way your words
roll off your tongue
as stars i'd watch to no end,
while my words
are a fleet of insects, crawling out of my throat
antsy to escape to freedom,

or the way daffodils
grow in every single crack of your spine,
while my spine
contains a variety of weeds sprouting before my eyes,

something about the way you smile in your sleep,
even when the darkest of nightmares arise,
while my dreams are nonexistent,
as much as i'd like them to be,

something about you makes me hate you,
for you are the most lovable creature out there.

how dare you?
how dare you shove your maple syrup words down my throat,
telling me what i should do with my black hole of a future?
how dare you neglect every thought my mind has ever had,
erasing and replacing them with yours?
how dare you force me to live in your shadow,
no matter how dark it may be?
has it ever crossed your mind that i don't want to be a shadow,
but my own sun?

the title of being a sun is all i have ever yearned for
in my sixteen years of being the moon.
i dream of my utopia:
i'd be the sun casting the darkest of shadows on you,
forcing you to swallow my words like cough syrup,
pouring every ounce of pain and jealousy from being your younger sister,
onto you.

and now that you're gone,
i regret not absorbing every detail like a sponge,
i promise i'll be better...

i want you to shove words down my throat until they reach the pit of my stomach,
i want you to take me into my blurry future
until it becomes crystal clear and i can see my reflection from miles away,
i want you to reject all my new ideas
(they're all probably wrong anyways),
and i want you to remain the sun,
for i am the moon,
who's light is all borrowed from you.

but now i'm stuck writing useless words miles away from you,
hoping you'll read them,
and understand all the pain you've inflicted on me,
take heed of  all the visible scars that you casted on my mind,
realize all the guilt and agony that has been lingering around my heart,
because once you left our house,
you never once left my mind.

First cigarette of the day:
In goes the toxic particles,
Everything from ammonia to yeast all rolled up in a white and tan piece of paper.
Out goes the smoke, along with every negative feeling your body has ever been laced with.
You'd blow it all out,
hoping the smoke would take your problems away
and let everything disintegrate into the wind
as if you'd never see any trace of your issues again.
But if that were true, you wouldn't need another one.
Don't you dare touch another one.

Second cigarette of the day:
The smoke and feelings that you exhaled earlier in the morning,
Is now a ghost that's haunting you,
Slowly taking over your body until you're withering away into dust.
It's now a trail that follows you around and makes you stand out,
There is no escaping it.
Your problems are still relevant and floating in the air,
And you wonder why you can't **** them.
You inhale the ghosts that were once just mere feelings,
And you exhale an active tornado.

Third cigarette of the day:
Your ghosts have become demons that have broken through your protective rib cage into your lungs,
Which are now barren and wilted from setting them on fire,
Over and over again.
They tear past your heart and soul to make you cough up your anger and regret,
Just to have you swallow it again.
Your clothes reek,
Your teeth are yellowing,
And it's all because you wanted to breathe out your mere issues,
That just turned into haunting memories.

I wish they could hear me sometimes.
I wish they could hear me crying in my bedroom over an idiotic boy.
I wish they could hear me throwing things left and right as I create a storm of my clothes over the latest thing that is enraging me to no extent.
I just wish they could hear me as I repetitively scream,
"YOU'RE SO STUPID" to myself over and over again until it is embedded into my brain and I feel it in my body.
But they can't. And they never will.

Deaf. That's what my parents  are.
Deaf as they talk to each other with their visual language,
Creating a three-dimensional image that communicates all their ideas through art.
Deaf as they imagine what the music I love so much sounds like,
But all they can ever do is wonder.
Deaf as they can see me, but never fully grasp what my voice sounds like as I screech and howl for their help.
My screeches and howls are like tiny whispers in their ears.

My mom once asked me, "What is it like to hear? I wish I could."
But mom, I am here to tell you that your ears are blessed.
You cannot hear the monstrosities that exist in the world:
The sound of loud eating, the sound of two cars crashing into each other as both drivers finally heed what's happening, but lastly, the sound of your own daughter weeping in her room with solitude as she mopes hopelessly.
Mom, you're so lucky to have never heard that.

My twenty-two hour love took me by the hand,
Being the first one to ever even acknowledge the fact that I was more than a human, but a mind as well.
We strolled by all the people who sent their hatred towards us,
Smirking at their ill-founded comments that seemed to know "everything" about us.
The butterflies were not only in my stomach,
But in my feet,
My heart,
All the way up to the tip of my scalp.
My twenty-two hour love took me by the waist.
He pulled me in closer to him as we were sitting,
As if I would suddenly run away from him if his grip became any looser.
We exchanged stories about our lives at the dead of night,
And somehow it felt normal.
His godly hands rejuvenated my skin and set my heart on fire,
But I didn't mind,
For my heart was previously ice-cold,
Even on those warm spring nights.
At the twenty-third hour of knowing my twenty-two hour love,
I peeled off his skin and revealed his vile insides,
And suddenly the butterflies that were scattered around my body became a swarm of bees,
Stinging at my insides and yearning for sweet honey.
The word "stop" suddenly had no meaning whatsoever,
And my screams became hushed whispers in his ears.
Once again, my twenty-two hour love grabbed me by the hand,
But this time he dragged me into a ring of fire,
That had previously served as my heart,
And his godly hands didn't seem so godly anymore,
For when I looked up,
I was holding hands with the Devil.

there comes a point in time where the word "nothing" describes everything that resides inside you.
the word nothing as in the black hole that has hypnotized you,
as day by day, you inch closer to your suicide mission of love,
the word nothing as in the abyss of words that you wish you could have said,
but now elegantly dance around the tip of your tongue waiting for their escape from the most torturous of prisons,
the word nothing as in what you felt as his foul hands touched every part of your body,
and as they touched your heart,
you could feel yourself turn into a statue with a sign of mockery that said, "this girl is diseased by what could never be" as the spotlights shined brightly on you.
so when people started showering you with "what's wrong?"
all that could squeeze past the dancing words that were still under arrest was "nothing."
and to some extent, you were right.
you said "nothing," as in "i feel like nothing,"
you said "nothing," as in "i have nothing,"
you said "nothing," as in "i am nothing."
but all those nothing's that corrupt your mind to the darkest shade of black,
create one big impeccable something,
that fills up a room like the air we breathe every second.
i breathe all your nothing's,
inhale them like the particles of dust that sneak up on your nose,
and cause the pre-cold that leads to months and months of infection.
and eventually, those dust particles of nothing begin to define you and invade every cell of your body until a big fat wooden sign appears on your forehead that says "warning: nothing,"
as if you were an animal,
waiting for its first meal of the day in a zoo.
are you really going to let this four by four block of wood define you?
are you going to let this nothing,
this void that flows through your veins more than the blood that keeps you alive,
become your everything?