My biggest fear?  
Not being able to find love,  
because I’m too hard to love.  

Maybe it’s because I’m ugly,  
maybe because I’m not funny,  
maybe I’m just a horrible person,  
because I don’t love myself enough.  

I wonder if that’s the reason,  
if that’s why no one stays.  
Maybe I’m just too much,  
or not enough in all the ways.  

But maybe, deep down,  
I’m just waiting for someone  
to show me I’m worth loving  
even when I can’t show it to myself.

This time,  
my poems aren’t about you,  
but about me.  

Tonight,  
I’m showing my scars,  
showing the pain,  
writing the words I can’t say aloud.  

The old me would’ve been on the floor,  
crying,  
begging God to take her away.  
I still do,  
and I don’t think that’ll ever stop.  

But the new me writes about it.  
Not fully  
but she’s trying to be real,  
at least with herself.  

Not with her friends though,  
she doesn’t want to lose them.  
So maybe I didn’t change after all,  
but I’m trying.  

But nothing really changes,  
except my age,  
and my friends.  
Everything around me changes for the better,  
while I stand here,  
frozen in time,  
unable to move.  

But maybe that’s for the better.

I'm scared someone will finally see the sad girl I am.  
I'm scared they'll realize the smile I wear every day is fake,  
like everyone else around me.  
I'm scared they'll look down,  
see my arms  
those arms didn’t ******* deserve these scars.  

I'm scared they'll hate the girl I really am,  
happy one second,  
broken as hell the next.  
I'm scared they'll see me whole  
or what's left of me,  
the parts I didn’t cut away.  

Maybe I’m just not meant to be close to people.  
But I hope one day I’ll find someone,  
someone who’ll see these scars  
and not ******* judge me.  
I don’t need them to understand the pain,  
the kind of pain that made me do this.  
I just need them to be there,  
standing beside me,  
promising me it’s gonna be alright  
even if it’s not.  
Even if it never will.

Maybe drunk words are better than sober thoughts.  
When I write, and the words just ******* won’t come,  
fear holds them back  
fear of being real, of showing what’s really inside.  

I drink, and drink,  
alone in my room,  
no friends to share the glass with,  
no one to talk to.  

So I write my poems,  
pour my soul into these lines,  
and post them here,  
hoping someone will listen,  
hoping the silence won’t feel so ******* loud.  

Maybe someone will hear,  
maybe I won’t feel so ******* alone.

These poems I write
they're pieces of me,  
maybe the only real me.  

You read them  
without my knowing,  
stripped my intimacy bare.  

I showed you what I chose,  
but you wanted more,  
took more.  

Now I stand here,  
naked,  
exposed.

Sixteen, a sound I’ve always loved,  
A number rare, not often thought of.  
It whispers Lebanon in its quiet glow,  
A place, a feeling, only I know.  

You said it was odd, how odd, indeed,  
That made it more beautiful, unique to me.  
Not many love it, and that’s why I do,  
Sixteen felt mine, until it led me to you.  

On the field, you wore it, jersey so bright,  
Sixteen on your back, catching my sight.  
Was it a sign, a whisper from the sky?  
Telling me to love you, to not question why?  

But you don’t seem to see how much I care,  
Or maybe you do, but love isn’t there.  
Our worlds are apart, like earth and moon,  
Yet sixteen binds us, a secret tune.  

Was it chance or fate? I’ll never be sure,  
But loving you feels both odd and pure.

Four months, 27 days ago,  
I said I'd stop.  
I lied.  

The blade came back,  
old friend,  
old habit,  
old scars splitting open like  
they never left.  

The dark thoughts knock,  
but this time,  
they're coming in  
and I won’t show them the door.  

I’ll print my poems,  
every line about you,  
make a book,  
hand it to her,  
say, “Publish this. Give it to them.  
They should know what they meant.”

On my last day alive,  
I’ll tell you I love you.  
Then I’ll go home,  
write my final poem,  
leave it on my bed,  
and climb up,  
one last smoke on the roof,  
post a picture,  
and jump.