The people building their lives in my bones are polluting my body. I am the atmosphere, and they are putting holes in me.

it was strange, sitting there realizing we fought a running clock for almost two years. seeing what had once looked like forever become more like seconds, and knowing we lost, because we never could have won.

The brilliant blue of the sky today made me think of the color of your eyes in the bright light coming through your car windows, and how she was right next to you driving, blissfully unaware that you were torturing me with pictures of your face.

1. Make sure you are not dating him just because he is a sad boy. Make sure you are not dating him out of pity either. Date him because you like him, sadness and all.

#2. Do not expect yourself to be able to fix or save him. Be prepared to love him as he his. He may not ever become less of a sad boy. Make him smile when you can, keep him from being alone. But don't try to be his rescuer, or his savior. Help him keep it together when you can, and let him break on you when you can't. Do not try to change him.

#3. If he has physical scars, kiss them. Run your fingers across them. Tell him you love him and his scars. Not for them, not despite them. You love his scars because they are a part of him, and you love him as a whole.

#4. Do not feel guilty if you can't stay with him anymore. If it becomes too much, if you just fall out of love. If you just can't see yourself with him. Do not blame yourself, do not hate yourself. Just let him go as kindly and cleanly as possible.

#5. Do not hate him if he leaves you. Remember sometimes things end. Do not try to convince yourself that he needs you, do not hate the next girl he dates. Do not go to her and try to tell her how sad he is, how he will destroy her with his pain. Because we both know that isn't true, not really. And it isn't for you to decide.

#6. A warning. Relationships with sad boys rarely last, even if you think they will. He isn't your patient. You aren't his angel. This isn't a story book where you'll put him back together and he'll love you forever. If, by some miracle, you do manage to change him. If he becomes happy and "sad boy" becomes a thing of the past. Do not be surprised when he leaves you, because chances are, if he's truly changed, he will.

everytime i see you with her i die a little more.

every lie comes rushing back, about how she was "just a friend" and you "didn't even think she was attractive."

i despise you both.

i have lost the will to move from this empty bed.

all i want to do is sleep, but my mind quietly begs you to come lay next to me.

i know you won't, so i torture myself with thoughts of you with her instead.

And I sincerely hope,
that you cannot forget,
my cloud nine eyes and sugared lips.

My thin fingers on your chest, eyes flashing under neon lights.

I hope you cannot forget me and every sweet nothing spoken with damp hair and starry lashes.

And I hope everytime you touch her hair, you feel mine under your fingertips.

To the men who have hurt me, both physically and emotionally. To the men who have sexually harassed me. To the men who have tried to coerce and guilt trip me. To the men who tried to take advantage of me when I was 15, the lowest point in my life. When I was weak. Destroyed from depression, from bullying, from the transition of middle school to high school, from anxiety, from blind parents and others ignorance. To those of you who knew I was in a ****** up state of mind, who pretended to support me when I was crying, only to run your hand up my thigh and whisper "I can make you forget about it." To the boys who abused me, insulted me, struck me, brought a suicidal teenage girl to the point of destruction. To the guy who didn't quite **** me, but who came close. Who grabbed all over me while I shoved and smacked and told him to stop. Who tried to get inside me without my permission and who tried to guilt trip me, calling me a tease and telling me to lay down and pretend nothing was happening if it really bothered me so much. Who tried to teach me to retreat inside of myself at human contact so I wouldn't resist. To every guy who approached a mentally destroyed teenage girl who was drowning in herself to try to get ****** favors, to try to get me to trade my body for drugs, to try to bring me down even further so I wouldn't say no. Because I did say no. I always said no and fought and nearly vomited every time a guy started groping, started making lewd commentary in what started out to be small talk, every guy that grabbed at me without my permission and leered and tried to grind on me without any context other than you had a ******* and I looked weak enough to force yourself on. I hope someday someone rips you all apart. I hope someone tortures you, tries to blackmail you, coerce you, makes you feel like garbage when you're at your weakest. Because as much as all of you tried, even this fragile, broken teenager rejected you. Fought her hardest to get away from attempted assaults and made it, clawing and screaming away from you. Cried silently as angry, mocking messages came in but didn't dignify them with responses. Ignored angry phone calls from multiple numbers and continued to live, even when you all tried to break me into a *** slave. **** every last one of you up the *** with a flaming *****. I hope you all go through hell. I was going through hell and you all tried to destroy me, to incinerate my spirit in the name of getting someone to touch your *****. I hope you go through worse. I hope somebody castrates you. If there is an almighty deity, I hope they curse you for eternity. I hope you all know that the girl you tried to destroy for your own sadistic pleasure is stronger than ever before.

I rub my skin raw because of the way your desire scarred its way across my unwilling flesh. You were selfish, you are selfish. You are greed in a human body, and I am paying for it. Triggered by another man the same as you, who put his hands around my neck and seemed confused by the concept of a woman not wanting him. Who quickly decided he didn't care either way, and that I could get him off "willingly" by my own method or be forced in ways I would not survive. There is no such thing as yes when no is taken from you, when you have a choice between two evils and you choose the one you think you can live through. When silence answers questions and "I don't want to do this" is ignored because his **** means more than the choices of the person he's trying to force himself on. That is no man, that is a monster dressed as a high school student pretending consent can be forced. Because you made me decide between you ****** me unprotected or getting you off with something else, and I chose the one I thought I could live with, that wouldn't result in an unwanted life growing inside an unwilling body, a body that wasn't willing at conception and who would probably make the choice to end its budding inside of her before having her rapists child. Because you triggered memories of coercion with your threats, because you made it happen again and afterwards had the ******* nerve to get me some ******* grape juice and hand it to me ******* ******* pouting because I "looked like I hated every minute of that" and you "didn't even get to **** so it wasn't even worth it." Because coercing me into ****** activities under threat of unprotected **** apparently wasn't worth it because you didn't get to **** me, because me telling you no and saying I didn't want to until you got so fed up you wrapped your hands around my neck and squeezed annoyed you. Because you put your **** over my free will, over me as a human being. And I get to suffer because of it. You made me a survivor twice over and you smile at me in the hallways like you're somehow still my friend.

yes, i have other things to hold me together.

like poems that are dripping with you, and a small, shy cat who was once a stray like myself.

along with a ghostly stoner boy, who renames the colors of the rainbow and who speaks nonsense phrases, even when he's sober.

and a candle-flame girl who is covered in scars and who hides her pain in too-big hoodies, who hugs too tight and bleeds too easily and who doesn't know what a mistake falling for me will turn out to be, who draws me pictures and writes me love notes and cries into the night because she can tell that i ache for you still.

yes, you smartmouthed fool, i have other things to hold me together. but none of them are you.

And I didn't know.

How could I have?

How was I to know that my ocean eyed, long haired raver boy was her fiancee?

How was I to know that when he was kissing me in the dark, neon lights all around us, that she was waiting for him?

Yes, he is marrying her.

And no, she will never know my name.

Like I never happened.

and everytime the pain hits, i reach for pen/paper/keyboard like a ****** addict does a needle.

because poetry is my drug, and i hopelessly need the fix.

"You're not as submissive as I expected you to be. Typically, girls do whatever I tell them to once I put my hands around their necks."

go to hell and take your ***** with you.

i have seen scarred wrists and burns and bruises marring the bodies of beautiful girls, countable ribs and thigh gaps and jutting hip bones.

boys destroying themselves in puffs of smoke and empty pill bottles, dry coughs coming from ruined lungs.

but nothing triggers me like you do.

You are the walking parasite that made my story into a tragedy.

i want to write about her bones, his bones. anyone's bones, really. i especially love to write about rib cages and collarbones, because those are either very prominent or they are not. they are either delicate and protruding like a baby birds budding wings, or they are not. the delicate bones in fingers fascinate me just as much, but there are many different types of fingers and bone structures of fingers, so i do have a type. i prefer long, delicate fingers. artist fingers, pianist fingers. they look so fragile and they're always so cold, but they create such wonderful things. and while rib cages hold people and collarbones are for bruises, fingers are for creation and their bone structure is beautiful.

I am addicted to rain, to the sunset, to the sound of water over rocks.

To the crackling of the fire, to the breeze on my cheeks. To the feeling of someone else's fingers running through my hair.

I am addicted to the way he smiled, to the way she kissed, to the feeling of my fingers laced with someone else's.

I am addicted to the quiet pain in my heart, to obsessing over my fears, to apologizing for things beyond my control.

I am addicted to this boy who has eyes like the sky, to this boy who makes my heart jump into my throat and my cheeks burn and my legs go numb and who makes it hard to breath. I am addicted to this boy who doesn't really know who I am, who just knows who I want him to know, who has a smile like perfection and probably doesn't even know it.

I am addicted to writing. About my heart, about my dreams, about my sins and agonies. About how other people view me and how I view other people and how I view myself.

I am addicted to cuddling, to thick blankets and fluffy pillows, to lazy mornings.

I am addicted to wishing I could share all the things I love most with that boy, the one who I wish I could look at all day.

I am addicted to turning things into him without ever intending to.

1. Don't get angry when you dream about him smiling in slow motion. Do not awaken and sob, because you love his smile more than anything and it will not do for you to bawl when he was just trying to make you happy.

#2. Forgive him when he slips into your bed at night and holds your hand while you're trying to sleep. Don't resent him for leaving his smell all over your sheets, all over your room. You love the way he smells, and it gets cold in the grave. He just misses your warmth.

#3. Breath him in like smoke and let him rest in your lungs. Let him feel the way they expand and contract, because his never will again and he wants to feel it again.

#4. Everytime you close your eyes and see his, smile. Because he's looking at you, watching you. He had beautiful eyes and they were only for you and death, and now he has death but he only needs you.

#5. Do not commit suicide to follow him to the grave. He loves you and he would like to be with you, but he doesn't really want you to die like that, even if he says he does sometimes. He's just thinking out loud. People aren't good at seeing consequences once they have died.

#6. Do not regret not eating a piece of his flesh. It would have made you hate yourself. People would have called you sick. It's okay to have thought about it, they don't understand your grief, the need you have to own a piece of him. But he taps your special knock on the window nightly using the wind. You do not need to consume him to keep him.

#7. Do not resent him for dying. Even if he killed himself. Even if you loved him and he knew it and he did it anyways. Look at the sky and know he's in your rib cage, feeling your breathing and the listening to the beat of your heart. Do not resent him. He doesn't resent you for living.

And when you kiss her at the end of the aisle, I hope you think of me.

I want to hold your hand rather desperately.

Mom says it's teenage hormones. Dad says I'm over-dramatic about it.

But I'm getting worse, not better. I'm anxious constantly, suffering from attacks ranging from small to so severe I grow ill. Thinking I could end my life should any of my fears become real was my only comfort, but even that has abandoned me. For I am a coward who cannot take her own life for fear of the unknown. A craven, afraid of deaths pain but still longing for his freeing slumber.

Apparently this is something all teenagers go through. Wanting to stay in bed all day playing dead and pretending the world can't hurt me when it can break through my windows and torture me to death whenever it pleases. Apparently every teenager sits around, wanting to die but too afraid to end it. We all cry from our pure terror of things we are too afraid to speak of, too afraid to make real with words, too afraid to even think of for too long.

I've been practicing this breathing exercise. I do it in sets of 3, sometimes sets of 5. It's funny, because usually when I do things in sets, it must be 4 or 14 or 24. Move my fingers from pinky to thumb 14 times on both hands in synch. Things like that. I don't like 3, and 5 is iffy. But the breathing exercises that distract me from wanting to rip my own flesh off must be done in 3s or 5s, apparently.

My mind is not my best friend, but sometimes, it pretends to be. It tries to convince me that mother is right. That I'll outgrow suicidal thoughts spanning as long as I can remember and severe anxiety and depression so intense it eats me alive and makes me want to gnaw my skin off, but it makes me want to float to the bottom of the ocean or fly off a cliff and be free in much quieter ways.

Falling from a cliff wouldn't be quiet. It would be messy and the wind would be in my hair and I'd make a splat as I hit the ground. But I imagine drifting down like a feather, my soul leaving my body before the destruction and my body dissolving like dust, scattered to the wind.

I am thinking of flying and vainly wishing my parents are right, that I will outgrow mental illness and that I'm over-dramatizing it somehow, because my feelings and thoughts are overdramatic and counselors and therapists are liars, since according to father they're wrong when they say they're afraid I'm becoming a danger to myself, because mom and dad say they're wrong, mom and dad say I'm not dangerous to myself I'm just stupid and senseless and an attention ***** who is too scared to die, while other, much more vibrant and amazing people are dying and deserve the air in my lungs and aren't getting it.  

This is turning into a mess, like the one I'd make if I threw myself off a cliff. So I'll stop here and wonder if my heart can stop from the empty hopelessness choking it, as well.

dancing in the dark, a mass of bodies becoming one.

*nobody knows me and i have never felt so close with strangers before.

Marly. Just Melz. Kiyuki Ishida. Unwanted. Sye. Ally. Just a few of the people that have helped me, both in the beginning and recently. Who helped me when I had no place to turn to and no hope. Who gave me numbers to call for help and support lines when I needed them. People I am forever grateful to.

and now that i can no longer stand myself, i find solace in you.

dark eyes and dark hair and long legs and artists hands, all pale skin and a lanky figure stretched across my couch, gesturing and laughing and resting a cold arm across my shoulders.

tips of fingers tracing across my own flesh like slim ice cubes, soothing and tickling at once, and my pulse finally slows and i get lost in someone else for awhile.

you plan to get high on easter and nearly every other day, you rarely speak but let soft touches and tight hugs convey what you can't say.

you told me you had never loved anyone and may never love anyone, and your favorite memory is of a cat you had as a child.

you smiled, but your eyes were black holes.

But I am happy in my own skin. Small frame, full, pouting lips. Flat stomach, toned thighs. Thick, waving brown hair and almond shaped hazel eyes. Pale skin and cinnamon shaving freckles. Long nails that chip often. I am a short girl, but I am not childishly built. I am not stick-thin, but not plump. Boys say I have "real" curves- crudely deeming them superior to what they call "fat girl" curves, not noticing the aggravation their casual mockery of another women's body invokes in me. They touch my hair without my permission and leer at my chest. They laugh and compare me to a cat when I swat their hands away and storm off. They all want to call me kitten. Well, this one has claws.

I really should stay away from boys like you.

Who take me to their rooms and don't go anywhere near the bed, just put their arm around me and tell me about themselves. Who touch my cheek and look at me for a moment when they talk about things they love.

The beautiful, innocent ones with stars in their eyes. Who introduce me to their parents and hold my hand and hold me and don't try anything in the dark.

Boys who I really, really don't deserve, who eventually see that for themselves and leave, taking a piece of my heart with them.

Boys like you, honey.

every good boy leaves because in the end, i
am not what they wanted at all.

they wanted white-picket-fence springtime girls, who wear dresses and smile like innocence and blush when you hold their hand in public, shy.

not me. not rose-thorn walls and ****** teeth. not a girl who cusses and fights and claws at anything that lashes out at her. not a girl who won't let them fight her battles and stands on her own, lacing her fingers with yours because you are hers and she will fight tooth-and-nail for you, and she wants everyone to see that.

they want someone they can settle down with and have a nice, cute house and a pretty cherry tree and pretty little kids and have homemade breakfasts and listen to the birds sing in the morning.

they do not want a girl who sleeps till noon and drags them off on wild adventures and wants to go everywhere. who hates the shrill chirping of birds and uses black curtains to hide from the sunlight daring to slide through her windows. Who can't cook to save her life and holds on far too tight.

no, i am not what you wanted. but i can't be anyone else.

You've got outer-space eyes when you hate me.

You said you didn't want to be alone.

You did not want to lose your chance at being safe and content for a whirlwind romance with a girl you'd danced with in the dark.

You said we were like Romeo and Juliet, only I was Romeo and she was Paris.

And instead of throwing it all away in the fires of passion for a chance at romance, a chance to make our story end better, you chose the safe route.

You chose Paris.

so if you could stop trying to treat my body like your own personal antidepressant, i would really appreciate it.

My parents tell me to stop bringing misfits home.

Stray cats, lost dogs, lonely people.

Anything sad in the neighborhood, sad in my sight, I bring home with me.

The poor teenagers up the hill, the stoners dazed by the lake, the girls with broken souls and the boys with broken minds. Survivors of all kinds of abuse find refuge with me.

I carried an orange cat home one day, I found him walking around a construction site. He was fed and given something to drink, and we found his owner.

A puppy only a few weeks old, eyes still closed, deathly ill. We bottle fed it and took it to the vet, but it was too late. She said she had a damaged spine and wouldn't make it. I stroked her head as she stopped breathing.

I brought a schizophrenic boy home and helped him through an attack in our living room, while my parents sat horrified in the kitchen.

No less than three girls have cried on my shoulder in the safety of my bedroom, traumatized by rapes they didn't know how to talk about.

These strays, these wounded souls....These are my people. I love them all.

So when they say "stop bringing such damaged things home" it breaks my heart.

And I do it anyways.

to everyone who's calling me....*i am no longer the person you're looking for.

And when I finally let my broken dreams fall from my too-thin fingers, you were not there to catch them.

And when you finally stopped saying you were sorry, eyes like a stormy sea, you smiled like the sunrise.

And then you forgot me, like I was the clouds making your world gray, finally blowing away.

I love you, and because I do...I want you to find someone who loves you as much as I do—more, if possible. Because you can't love me, because you don't want my love, don't want me. But I love you more than anything, enough to let you go if you ask, enough to stay knowing I'll never be your person, enough to be your friend when it's killing me, enough to wish you a love that's legendary with someone you love back.

dear S.

I hate you. I really, really hate you. Every time I see you, I want to break all the bones you have and light your paper flesh on fire. I want to shatter your dreams like you shattered my happiness. I want to take away anything you have ever loved and will ever love, because you took away the only person who ever had my heart. You cracked three ribs ripping him out of my chest, and it seems you bruised my lungs as well. I am left with broken-glass memories, puncture wounds from snapped bones, and scars beneath my skin. So *******. ******* for being the springtime girl he always deserved. ******* for being the lamb he always wanted to protect. ******* and your big blue doe eyes and your fluffy blond hair. ******* for being the innocent little ***** he always deserved. ******* for being my complete opposite. For being a daisy while I'm just a thorn. For not having devious, hazel, almond-shaped eyes and long, wild brown hair and pale, fragile skin. ******* for offering him something I never could.

******* for pretending to be a friend when all you wanted was to steal the only person who ever made me feel.

And I especially hate you for making me into an angry, bitter harpy. Because I was never a violent person. Never this vicious. But you've shown me a jealous, furious side of myself that I never knew existed.

Someday, I hope some pretty girl who is nothing like you rips him out of your chest and breaks everything you try to hang on with. I hope she flaunts him in front of your face and leaves you with destruction and ghosts of things you didn't know you could miss so much. Then, you'll be just like me.

Another broken, beautiful thing, dead at his feet.

Please come back. We'll watch stupid movies and eat tacos and drink slushies again. We'll hold each other and I'll use your blanket so my scent lingers after I'm gone again. I'll rest my head on your chest again. I'll apologize. I'll make you coffee. I'll call more often and pay more attention to you. I'll pause my video games when you call. I'll talk on the phone for hours with you and hang on to every word. I'll kiss you longer and hug you tighter. Just please, please come back. Please.

red pen lines cover pale thighs and i am almost ashamed.

today was the last day i may ever see your face.

*and i am having pretty mixed feelings about that.

babydoll keeps saying she loves me, *but she doesn't know what a mess i really am.

I'm completely stricken by you. You've got these sky eyes and this velvety hair and this cute snub nose. And you've got sweet looking lips and you're so, so endearingly shy. God ******.

I am as much of a victim to my own nature as anyone else.

i would never ask you to return to the hell that is my mind, but i can't help but resent you for leaving me alone in here.

you are way too beautiful and alive to fall for a girl like me, babydoll. save yourself while you can.

You are my ex-boyfriend. You fell out of love with me and into her arms, but when she smashed you against the pavement, I put you back together. Best friends forever. But still I wonder, is this really it for us? We stare into each others eyes and I can't help but feel something is incomplete. We have both gone on to see other people. I wish us both every happiness and all the luck in the world with out partners. But when I'm staring into your eyes, all I feel is that there's something I missed.

Dreams of my dark-eyed, dark-haired, alabaster-skinned boy chased away the pain last night, while the soft morning light and the silence of a house when it is far too early for life soothes me at last.

You died, and I'm still here.

I wonder if you're judging every breath I take as breaking our promise.

Struggling to deal with parts of this relationship I cannot stand- you, off high or drunk, leaving me alone for months at a time. The way a door for infidelity opens, far too warm. While you're off in your own world, doing I-will-never-know what, a golden lion boy holds his hand out, purring words of pure honey.

1. Don't look at her like she's a victim, like she's weak. Don't look at her like she's incapable of living a normal life again.

#2. Go easy with her. Don't treat her like she's some destroyed thing, but handle physical contact with caution. Watch very carefully for signs that she's feeling anxious, or that her head has turned off and made her numb. Watch for reactions, for a look in her eyes. If she has blanked out, stop. How well do you know your girl? Does she want to be held and have her hair stroked and hand held while you both remind her that she is safe with you, that you would never violate her? Does she need you to sit back and make sure she can see you clearly? What she needs defines physical moments.

#3. Don't force her to talk about it. She will tell you what she is ready to tell you, when she is ready to tell you. It is hard to tell your partner that you've been made into a survivor. Do not ask for details before she is ready, and do not look at her like she has been tainted because hands made of greed and hatred touched her, scarred her. She is still herself.

#4. Listen. Listen well. Do not do anything without a yes. An absolute yes. She must say it and mean it and look like she means it. Do not coerce her. She has been coerced before. And taking no away makes yes meaningless. Coercing is begging, pleading, pestering, threatening, intimidating. Coercing is holding her captive and not letting her go until she gives you what you want. Do not coerce her, because you have then assaulted her.

#5. Being coerced into ****** activity can be as violating as being held down and *****. Because they made her go along with it to avoid greater pain, because they made her feel like she had no other choices. Because they pressured her until she broke, until she stopped resisting and just remained passive and silent as they did what they wished. Please, do not ever make her say no twice.

#6. Do not belittle her pain, do not compare it to another survivors. Do not call one survivors pain worse than the other, because you are hurting and silencing them with your own, ignorant opinion. You do not feel her pain, the pain all survivors feel. You are not making her feel better by reminding her it could have been "worse." You are minimalizing her own battle.

#7. Love her. Love her however she needs to be loved.

#8. Be patient. Healing takes time. Be her support beam, her hand to hold. Be there when she is having flashbacks. Be there when she is screaming and crying and scrubbing herself ****** in the shower. Be there with a soft blanket and open ears and an open heart. Be there to remind her she is not *****, she is not filthy or disgusting. Remind her she isn't less in your eyes.

#9. Sometimes, you will need to explain to her that she is perfect to you. Because she will stare at her body in the mirror and remember it was touched by filthy hands and feel unworthy of you. Remind her she is worthy, she is worth it. Remind her that those hands were not controlled by her, that she was not at fault. That she does not bear the sins of another person.

#10. Do not try to make her report it. Because she will have to face him that way, in front of a jury of people who has been given the job of judging them. She will be torn down by his lawyer, painted to sound like a **** and a liar, and the **** will be painted into something consensual and enjoyed by both parties, instead of just one. If she was coerced they will try to make her lack of no a valid yes, or worse. They will make her sound like she is asking for it. If her ****** succeeds, he will make her feel violated all over again in court. He may not go to prison. He may be found not guilty, because there wasn't enough evidence to prove he did it or because the jury decided a lack of a no was a yes or that she was at fault for not standing her ground under hours of pressure and intimidation and being held a captive against her will. The **** will cease to happen in the eyes of the law and she will be left raw and aching, a girl deemed crazy because a man committed a crime against her body, her mind, her soul. She is afraid to testify for a reason, but if she does, hold her up. Because the world will feel as though it is collapsing around her as she does it.

And maybe once you're finally gone, I'll start feeling better.

Or maybe your absence will **** me.