It seems as if everyday I struggle to love myself. It goes beyond the normal, everyday insecurities; it feels as if I need to hurt myself, to tear away this ugliness and hurt.*

I look in mirrors and hate the reflection I see. I want to shatter and break away this distorted image staring back at me. I can’t look at myself without sadness and hate creeping into my lungs, without breathing so shakily because I’m trying to hold back my anger and disgust. I can’t look people in  the eyes, it would be so easily for them to see the scarred and overly-large eyed lost girl that I am. Somedays I don’t know who I am at times other than an ugly girl with no hope.

Somedays, I feel okay. I feel as if I can get through the day with a bit of pride, and other days-like today- I want to ******* scream and claw and away at the loathing I feel inside.

                         *Somedays, I just want to be beautiful and loved

break me up like your precious drug
inhale me,
snort me
get ******-up off me

*i want
to be the
addiction in
your
life

The house that I grew up in
went up for sale today.
The house I lived in
from ages eight to eighteen.
The house I wrote my first songs in.
The house I had endless sleepovers in with my childhood friends.
It was in this place that I grew
(And wilted)
And grew
(And wilted).
That house is a land mine of memories. So many ghosts.
Ghosts of my uncle playing guitar in the living room.
Ghosts of my mother at three am telling me between drunken slurs how irresponsible I am for forgetting to turn off the basement light.
Ghosts of my parents friends coming over to “jam”.
Ghosts of me singing old jazz tunes with my grandfather as he played the grand piano.
The music, the laughter.
The drugs, the alcohol.
The screaming the yelling
The trying the crying.
The endless fighting.
The hopelessness and then
The hope.
The loneliness that never left me
Even when I left the house.
The late night hysterical phone calls to my first ever boyfriend,
who brought me about as much comfort as my mascara stained pillowcase.

The house that I grew up in went up for sale today.
The for sale sign is on the lawn.


I guess a home
Really has nothing to do with a house
After all.
Or at least that’s what I keep
Telling myself.

When I was really young
I used to always sleep
With my face toward the wall
And my back toward the rest of the room.

I remember always being afraid of the dark.
As if something or someone else was always with me in the same room.

I never turned over when I heard a noise or saw a shadow.
I was always scared that I'd see "someone" or "something" standing in the corner of my room looking directly into my eyes through the thick darkness that devoured my bed room.

I was only 7 years old.
I had no idea that monsters and fairy tales were all makeshift beliefs for people's entertainment.

Trying to sleep every night was pure hell.
Always thinking that every sound was made by a ghost,
Every shadow was casted from the boogie man
And that every feeling or sensation my nerves collected from anything other than the bed was the demons and monsters touching me, waiting for me to fall asleep.

If only I knew then what I know now.
That every fear and nightmare I ever had
Was actually something to laugh about.