please don't hate me
if we don't get to live these dreams

i have found that dreams never quite work out
not even in sleep

please forgive me if i give up
even after all this time
all these pills
all this therapy
after hours spent in behavioral unit B

please don't hate me
i'm just tired
this world is exhausting and unfair
no perfect god created us
there is no guaranteed light waiting at the mouth of any of these dark tunnels
we just go along
everything just happens
and i am not "meant to be" anything
not even alive
not even breathing

try to understand
i live for very few things
my future, my dogs, the need to be loved before i'm gone
but my future looks rickety
the wood is splintering and the nails are mostly rust at this point
i wasted too much time on things i can't control
and threw away all my potential
and my dogs are getting old
and i only leave muddy footprints on the world
stuck with in betweens and goodbyes
she wrote a poem that called me cancer
i listened

please believe me
i hate my lies, i do
i wish i could control it
i wish i didn't keep color coded strings tied to my fingers, coordinating who i am to different people and what has spilled out of my mouth, burning my tongue, deceptive acid
i hate my lies and dreams and body and breathe and spirit
hell, i hate my passion, it leaves me covered in scars and red streaks
i don't know how to keep energy from turning into anger from turning into marred flesh
i have no self control
but that's a lie, i do, i've stopped myself before,
it's just sometimes i think if i carve words into my skin these things can never leave me please god don't leave me

my chest hurts
all that's left is
i can't touch that, can't listen to that, can't look at that
can't really explain why except for that i can't
can't tell the truth to save my ******* truth
can't remember what i said two minutes ago
can't keep it together keep it together keep it TOGETHER
and i have all these dreams but that's all they can be so why do i fight so hard?
ruining my own life just because it's in my hands
i ruin anything i'm entrusted to take care of
my hands shake too much and i can't quite hold on
and now i'm making excuses like this is out of my control
is it out of my control? is it under my control?
i can't answer these questions i don't know what i'm making up anymore
it all just runs together looming dark and dangerous over my skin
sometimes it sets into my bones and i call it electricity

can you try to understand why i don't want to live like this
and i don't know how to change
i don't even want to get better because i don't know who i am outside this cage
i constructed every piece from scratch and i think it's the only thing i ever made
did i get this from my father?
sometimes i think we're more alike than i'd like to believe
we just hide different kinds of scars under our sleeves

but please don't hate me
if i finally finally leave

I find a poem that reminds me of you
In all your restless moonlit spirit
Besides
A few discrepancies

I forget that the whole world does not have your laughter memorized
And that others, too, have owned the night
From their own little corners

I forget this
So I softly curse the author
For confusing the color of your eyes

I want to rewrite the lines
Of every beautiful, breathless, footstep-tempo piece of poetry
Make little corrections
So our story is never convoluted

Our nights spent alive are far too precious and important

Sometimes I forget that these are not our stories
Others, too, have owned the night
From their own little corners

racing across the train platform,
one hand on our heads keeping our beanies in place,
the other clenching each other's

we slid in through the doors,
catching our breath in between laughter
we make it above ground just as the sun is setting over astoria
and i swear your eyes turn golden

my favourite you comes out at night
we lose track of time, put away our cell phones,
and vandalize this whole **** place with our love

carve your name into my rickety old heart like you did the trees
near bethesda
kiss me long and hard, like the winters
just as refreshing when i open the door and seeing you,
my own wonderland

melt this ice pick inside of me
set me on fire, for all i care
everything is dying right now,
but for once, for once, it doesn't feel like it

I don't wanna write anymore
Don't wanna draw anymore
Don't wanna sing anymore
Don't wanna breathe anymore
When I was little they said I was wonderful at all these things
(Except for one
You can blame my dad who trashed my lungs)
And I
Being the budding flower of future disaster
Shaped myself around these things
I branded myself ART KID
I spent hours drawing the individual scales of fierce crayon dragons
I wanted to write and illustrate my own books
But when you get older you read Fitzgerald
When you get older you visit art museums
I can recognize a Rembrandt painting from across a hall so it's easy enough to recognize trash when I see it
Crumpled paper ***** lay scattered around my bedroom floor, my wastebin is full with wasted dreams and how did they ever let me think I could be worth something?
I guess I had potential
So they weren't really lying
But it hurts
You walk around in massive shoes expecting to grow into them but you just get blisters from the friction
I don't fit into this mold but I built it myself so why not?
It hurts
When you're used to the sun then suddenly night comes and you have to invent the lightbulb
But it was always there before
And now it's just gone
Like moments, like people, like potential
So where do we go from here?

do you ever wish you didn't?
do you ever wish it were simple?
i often find myself longing for something easy
something readable
but we've built ourselves from complex wood engravings
i suppose that's part of our story
and i wouldn't trade a minute of our starlight
but you have to admit
sometimes simple sounds perfect

I've spent my whole life with WIPE YOUR FEET written on my forehead in thick waterproof ink but I never really notice because I tend to avoid mirrors
And people always seem so happy when you let them leave marks on your skin so it's easy to forget it's wrong
To forget that I am not made to kiss the feet of those who step on my mouth and silence me
If I look in the mirror I feel used and unclean so I don't
The realization that you are not human is heavy and unpleasant, it leaves you nauseous and restless but people seem so happy when you let them leave marks on your skin so trying to reclaim your being is selfish, right?
Often times when I am suicidal it's because I feel I have nothing to give to the world, I'm not important or valuable but of course I'm not valuable, I'm dinged up and ***** from a lifetime of use
Maybe then it's my purpose to be used
Or maybe there's no purpose at all
Because maybe I am not a tool
So how ****** up is it that I feel I should die if I'm not able to be used?
I'm sick to the stomach as I try to scrub the label off my forehead or at least the dirt from my skin
And feel selfish for looking in the mirror