It’s that time again.
It’s 2am again.
It’s time to look to the right side of my bed and feel sad.
It’s time to wonder why it’s still empty.
It’s time for me to make a list of why it is empty.
It’s time for me to be ******* myself.
It’s time for me to wonder where I went wrong.
It’s time for me to make a list of all my mistakes.
It’s time to feel sorry for myself.
It’s time for me to break my own heart.
Again.
It’s time for me to play over what men have said to me in the past.
It’s time for my old tinder messages to haunt me.
“Unless I can eat that *** and ***** from the back before marriage Christian girls aren’t as fun.”
“Would you be interested in a nice thick 8 inch ****?”
“I’m looking for a more physically intimate relationship.”
It’s time for me to remind myself the reason why my bed is empty.
Men want the one thing that I can’t give them,
And without my body I am nothing to them.
All I am is what’s between my legs and what’s under my shirt.
And with my legs crossed and my top on,
what could I possibly offer them?
It’s time for me remember that while my choice maybe the right choice,
It’s also the lonely choice.
It’s time for me to remember that even though it feels like it’s my fault,
It’s not.
It’s time for me to daydream until I fall asleep.
Again.

Saying sorry is the hardest word to say in the english language.
Saying sorry is a humbling experience.
Saying sorry takes courage.
Saying sorry requires your own feelings to take a back seat.
I hate the word sorry.
At least I hate saying it.
I want to erase it from my vocabulary.
I say it too much.
I tend to apologize when it’s not entirely my fault.
I usually say sorry when I want to “save” a relationship.
Or at least try to make it better.
And it’s not even romantic relationships.
It’s friendships, family, etc.
I felt like saying sorry would change things.
I felt like that maybe if they saw me put forth the effort to make it work then they would too.
I thought that if I said sorry that they would say sorry too.
I was wrong.
Every time I said sorry no one said it back.
I took responsibility for my actions,
why weren’t they taking responsibilities for theirs?
I know I was in the wrong,
but I wasn’t the ONLY one in the wrong.
Why am I always the one to take the blame?
I thought saying sorry was supposed to make me feel better.
Why do I feel worse?
I’m tired of being the only one who is sorry.
I want to live my life unapologetic.
From now on the only thing I’m sorry for is not being sorry.
Sorry not sorry.

She got dealt a bad hand in life.
But she didn’t fold.
She kept playing.
She didn’t walk away from the table,
And leave the casino like she should have.
She keeps playing the hand life dealt her.
And she’s slowly going into debt.
Deeper in the game until one day she won’t be able to play anymore.
She’ll be out of money.
Out of cards.
I just pray it doesn’t come to that.
I want her to fold.
Leave the table.
Leave that lifestyle behind her.
Count her losses and move on with her life.
There’s more to life than that hand that life dealt her.
I just wish she could sober up long enough to see it.
I just wish she could see that there’s so much more to life than the hand that she was dealt.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,”
I tell him.
I look off into the distance.
“Just stay away from me.”
I begged him.
Sadness laced my voice but it was also firm.
He knew I was dead serious.
I looked into his eyes.
Hurting.
Confusion.
More hurting.
I was glad I hurt him.
I felt no guilt.
After all, that’s how he’s made me feel for the past three months.
But when I told him to stay away my intent was not to hurt him.
I told him because I want to stop hurting.
The way he passes glances my way,
his kindness,
his mannerisms…
It all hurts me.
Hell,
even hearing his voice stings my soul.
I can’t do it anymore.
I don’t want to hurt anymore.
He needs to stop looking at me,
stop being kind to me,
stop being a gentlemen,
stop talking to me.
He has another girl to look at,
be kind to,
be a gentleman to,
to talk to.
And that girl is not me.
I walked away.
I didn’t look back.

I enjoyed dancing with you while you were drunk.
I was stone cold sober.
Unless my prescriptions counts as a high.
I got drunk off you.
Your hands around my waist.
It actually feels like you want me.
But you’ll forget about this in the morning.
Until then I’ll enjoy you slurring sweet nothings in my ear.
Your lips touching mine.
I've never drank beer but I’m guessing it taste like your lips.
Maybe I'll start.

I found a penny face up.
I flicked it off because luck doesn't exist.
At least not for me.
I picked it up and turned it to tails.
If I can't get any luck no one else can.
People say misery loves company,
But I'm just tired of things working out for everyone else but me.
I think I'm last on everyones list.
I'm the pocket change in the bottom of a purse.
I'm the last resort,
When people are desperate for some change,
Turning their purses upside down,
Throwing couch cushions,
Hoping for some luck.
I'm a lot like a penny.
But if I were a penny I'd have tails on both sides.
**** pennies.

Most girls love having crushes.
The thought of someone new.
Asking themselves, “Is this it? Could this be the one?”
Allowing themselves to be hopeful that this one will be different.
But then there’s girls like me.
Girls who have anxiety.
I hate the feeling of liking someone new.
I hate having crushes.
While other’s get butterflies,
I get angry wasps.
My heart doesn’t skip a beat.
Instead it pounds against my chest like I just ran a marathon.
I don’t blush.
My chest heats up and gets covered in red splotches.
When I look down at the ground I’m not doing it to be cute.
It’s better to look at the ground than to look into another set of eyes that will never love you.
While some girls lose sleep out of pure bliss,
I lose sleep because of fear of rejection.
I’m not asking myself, “Could this be the one?”
No, I’m asking myself, “How will this one break my heart?”
But I will let this crush crush me.
I’ll soak in my hurt.
Make myself fully aware of the tears running down my face.
Remember how they feel.
And I will move on.
Like I always do.
“Weeping may last through the night,
But joy comes with the morning.”
Psalms 30:5

The thought of you terrified me at first.
Another reason for someone to never love me.
It brought me to tears.
But when I heard my diagnosis…
I smiled.
I was relieved.
My thoughts.
My obsessions.
My compulsions.
They now had a name.
Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.
OCD for short.
My thoughts no longer defined me.
They weren’t a part of me anymore.
I knew what to call them.
They had a name.
And maybe since I knew their name,
I could tell them to ******* leave.

I’m surprised I’m not hurting so much.
I’ve only been obsessing over you for three months now.
I saw your single relationship status and got my hopes up.
Excited by the thought of you.
The thought of us.
That’s the problem though.
I didn’t truly like you.
I liked the thought of you.
So I’m glad you got a girlfriend.
Actually you had one the whole time.
But I feel sorry for her.
I found out through other people about your relationship.
Your Facebook still reads single.
You never post a photo of the two of you,
But she does.
You may like it but you never comment.
In person you two look like friends.
Well, acquaintances really.
You two never talk.
She just follows you around like a lost puppy.
She gives you all this love and attention,
But you just stand there and take it.
You aren’t giving anything back.
It’s like she’s screaming at you to love her back,
and she’s answered with silence.
You maybe her boyfriend,
But is she really your girlfriend?
I feel sorry for her.
She deserves better than you.
People say I still have a chance with you,
But I don’t think I want a chance with you.  
I deserve better.

I live deep inside my own head.
I sometimes wonder if I’ll ever make it out.
Alive.
I don’t know what living is anymore.
I’m never fully present.
There’s always a piece of me off somewhere else.
My mind wonders off...
I don’t even have control of it anymore.
I do it subconsciously.
I’ve been in my own head for so long now.
I don’t know where it all began.
Maybe puberty.
When I was in 5th grade I became a “woman.”
I was also hurt deeply by many people that year.
Friends introduced me to things a little girl should never be exposed to.
Then middle school was tragic.
I was hurt more times than I can count.
Maybe that’s when the day dreaming began.
The real world hurt me so badly that I had to create my own world.
My own reality.
After awhile I stopped knowing the difference.
Reality vs Fantasy
What is there to pursue in this reality?
Motivation left me years ago.
I beg her to come back but she never does.
Why should I pursue dreams in the real world, when I can achieve so much more in my world.
I guess that’s why Motivation left me.
She served no purpose in my life anymore.
I now live for the small things in the real world.
Seeing a new movie. Eating at my favorite restaurant. Hanging out with my best friend.
...
I’ll save the big stuff for my world.

“What’s your name again?”
He asks me.
“Have we met before?”
He asks me.
Yes we’ve met.
I remember the first time I saw you up close.
I was too scared to look into your eyes so I just looked at your hands.
I could’ve looked at them all day.
They were beautiful.
Not in a soft and polished kinda way,
but a strong and rough way.
It’s like they told stories of your manhood and all I wanted to do was put them up to my face and listen to what they had to say.
But you ask me…
“What’s your name?”
I guess you were all business.
Filming for your job and I was just a prop.
A nameless
plain
unimportant
prop.
You had to edit over an hour of footage with me in the background.
Twirling the ribbon in my Bible scared that if I looked up I would just stare at you.
You had to type my name.
First and last.
But you ask me…
“What’s your name?”
I thought of us before even laying eyes on you.
I remember the first time I saw your face.
We’ve only been going to church together for three months now.
I’ve only been staring at you every Sunday for three months now.
But you ask me…
“What’s your name?”
Your profile popped up on my Facebook and I thought it was fate.
I wasn’t looking for your profile.
I didn’t even know your name yet.
I lost sleep because of you.
It wouldn’t surprise me if I said your name in my sleep.
I checked your socials like an old man checks the morning paper.
But you ask me…
“What’s your name?”
Don’t worry about my name,
if you don’t know it now you will never learn it.
If you wanted to remember my name you would have.
So don’t waste my time with asking me now.
“WHAT’S YOUR NAME?”
My name is worthless
unlovable
invisible.
But I don’t say any of this out loud.
I tell you my name while I feel my heart tighten.
My name is…
But once I tell you my name you repeat it like it’s a question.
It’s like a song I want to play on repeat until I get sick of it.
I want to hear you say my name over and over and over again.
But you won’t.
You have another girl’s name to say.
While you forget mine,
I remember yours like a bad song I wish I never heard.
A song that’s so bad it’s good.
What’s my name…
Maybe my name isn’t worth remembering.

What the hell does that mean?
When does someone become an adult?
When they turn 18? 21?
Or does age even matter?
Maybe it’s more about what someone does.
How much someone accomplishes.
What makes someone an adult?
Driving?
Moving out of your parents house?
Getting an education?
Losing their virginity?
Having a full time job?
Making money?
Marriage? Children?
What if I haven’t accomplished any of these?
What does that make me?
All I know is that I’m 25
and still feel like a ******* child.

Human touch.
I crave it.
But can’t have it.
It’s so hard being this alone.
A sound.
A smell.
Can make me want.
An accidental brush against my breast is enough to keep me wanting.
I lay awake at night forcing my legs together,
hoping it’s enough to keep me at bay.
I could take care of myself,
but no one will be there to hold me when it’s over.
My weighted blanket can only do so much.
I may feel weight pressing down on top of me,
but there’s no arms to hold me.
I can’t lay my head on my chest and hear my heartbeat.
I can love myself all I want,
but my ears still aren’t hearing the words,
“I need you.”
“I want you.”
“I love you.”  
I can love myself all I want,
but it never seems to be enough.

“You take everything too seriously.”
“You just don’t have a sense of humor.”
“No matter how I react it’s wrong.”
I take things too seriously?
I’m sorry that I’m not always cracking jokes.
I don’t have a sense of humor?
I didn’t know to laugh at jokes at my expense.
Why am I always the punchline?
Why is my mental health a joke to you?
No matter how you react it’s wrong?
It’s always wrong because you always react the same way.
You never make an effort to change how you react to me.
Yet I’m always the one that’s sorry.
I’m the bad guy.
Put me in handcuffs and lock me away.
Why aren’t you ever sorry?
I guess I missed the memo from God stating your perfection.
My anger is never justified but yours is.
I just need to accept the fact that you will never admit to being wrong.
Accept the fact that I will never hear you say sorry.
I wrote you a letter saying sorry.
But now all I want to do is rip it up.
Burn it.
Throw the ashes into the lake.
Maybe I’ll jump in while I’m there.

I’m like the update reminder on my computer
remind me in an hour...
remind me tonight..
remind me tomorrow...
later...
what happens when I update
will I perform better
or just be slower than before
is the update really worth the risk?

I talk myself out of having feelings for you every night.
I make a long list of how under-qualified I am to be yours.
My weaknesses far outweigh my strengths.  
It’s like someone with just a high school diploma applying to be a doctor.
I am severely unmotivated,
Terrible with finances,
And I do not work well under pressure.
Apply any pressure at all and I break.
You’re different.
You have accomplished so much in your 30something years.
Career.
Family.
Faith.
And you did it all on your own.
Then there’s me,
I don’t have anything to show for my 25years that I’ve existed.
I have books and movies to escape.
I read and watch life happen rather than live it myself.
Journals and papers filled with all my useless emotions and “experiences.”
Tear stained pages to remind me of all my heartbreak.
I have clothes that make me feel like I’m a woman.
Even though I’m a poor excuse for one.
I have makeup of all colors and finishes.
The only talent that I have.
Useless.
Not only do I have nothing to offer you,
I have nothing to offer anyone.  
But although I know all this is true,
I will still anxiously wait for you tomorrow.
I will still daydream about the conversations we will never have.
I will hope during the day,
And break my heart every night.

I’ve never had a boyfriend.
Not even close.
But that has never stopped me from wanting one.
I use to think I needed one.
Like how could I possibly go through life without a guy by my side?
But here I am at 24 (almost 25) and still no one is around.
But now I realize that I never needed one.
I didn’t need one to make good grades or get my degree.
No that was all me.
I didn’t need one to go to prom.
And that’s because I didn’t want to go.
I didn’t need one to break my heart.
No. I could do that all on my own.
I wish I could fix my broken heart myself but I can’t.
But I still don’t need one to fix my brokenness.
God is fixing my broken heart.
I’ll let you know when He’s finished.

Hello Depression. It's nice to finally meet you. You've been apart of me for awhile, but I'm just now finding out about you. Depression you make me feel like I'm drowning. Like I'm drowning in a lake with a sheet of ice above me. I'm under the ice. I see people walk by. I'm banging on the ice but it's just not breaking. I'm screaming but the more I scream the more water fills my lungs. I'm desperate for someone anyone to notice I'm struggling. I want someone to notice and to react. I want someone to be scared to lose me. I want someone to break the ice. To reach down and grab me and help me breathe again. I want to breath again. I want someone to be my reason to breathe. Breathe.

A year ago I lost you.
A year ago I was mourning our friendship like I was mourning a death.
A year ago you probably felt it too.  
You might feel like I abandoned you,
But that’s far from the truth.  
Truth is,
I pray for you every night.
I think about you everyday.
I miss you.
I love you dearly.
But I couldn’t sacrifice my soul for our friendship.
I had to sacrifice our friendship for my soul.