I guess you could call it poetic how by the age of 12 I had no recollection of what happiness tasted like on my tongue. Some would say it was tragically beautiful.
But it was not poetic, nor was it beautiful,  but it was tragic. It was so very, very sad, and that sadness is only doubled now that people see sorrow as glorious.  It is not glorious. It is not strength. It is a lump of iron in your chest and stomach and it eats you from the inside, out and you have no right to think that blood stained wrists are anything other than tragic. So very,  very tragic.

Once I wore Yoga Pants to school
That day I got asked out 3 times
All nice guys
All nice people
But I said no to all of them
Why?
Because something about those
pants made them see something
they hadn't noticed before
And I didn't like that.
I didn't like the fact that they didn't
see who I was in a **** dress
or in jeans
or in other clothes
All they noticed was how my ****
looked in Yoga Pants
I wanted them to ask me out
when I wasn't wearing tight pants
*Is that too much to ask?

My new favorite poet is a fifteen year old girl.
Margaret is clever it's astounding.
I knew youth was coming like this but usually when I saw it up close they we're just these maniacal computer wiz kids but this girl seems to party.
I hope she meets Alex Turner someday.
I hope she meets Andrew VanWyngarden too.
I don't know why, but I guess it's because they're dashing and she deserves the best.
I hope the world don't tangle her up too much and don't sit on her like a fat bully.
I know she can dodge it though and we need her and her vision of peace like a checkpoint.
My favorite new poet is a fifteen year old girl.
Shine on Margaret, light up the world.

You are an incomplete thought
a wandering boat
set to sail in my mind.

You posses that magic
That can take me away
but neither of us can drive.

You are all the radiant colors in a sun beam
you are all the hollows of the night

You are nothing I know
yet I studied you so well
I even traced the details of your smile

sometimes I give in and I let your hollows caress me

But sometimes
                      I Give up myself to complete you .

Stop trying to remember his scent, he smelled like summer and reminds you of the time he made you laugh so hard, you snorted out milk on that dead, hazy day.

2. Don't waste your day trying to decipher what colour his eyes were, it'll only remind you of the galaxies and constellations that you once saw in his eyes

3. Stop trying to retrace the shape of his mouth in the middle of the night, you'll choke on your tongue trying to taste the mint he devoured seconds before pulling you in for a kiss

4. Stop reliving the times you clasped hands together, the glass plate will fall off your trembling hands.

5. Burn this list, admit that the galaxies and constellations shining in his eyes were wilted, the one in yours are bursting with fire. Remember on the dead, hazy day his laugh sounded like nails running down a chalkboard. Remember when you kissed, the weeds growing from his mouth entangled the roses blooming in yours.

Realize that one day, another boy is going to come and plant daisies where he left behind thorns.

I do not know who I am and there's really nothing sadder than this,
especially when people are constantly questioning you about who you want to be and you don't know what to say or how to act.

I can hardly keep my thoughts together, I don't know how to put them in order. And I--
I am losing myself everyday as I give everything my utmost devotion,
only to find out that I have not been given any in return. 

At this hour of night, I feel empty and useless.
And it's probably true that this tear-stained sheet of paper I'm embedding my thoughts in will mean more to me than I ever did to anybody.

And it's sad because I could never blame them. 
There isn't a specific character that is outshining the radiance of others to love. 
There aren't anymore dreams, or hopes, or hobbies to hold on to. 

Everything is a lie. My entire being is a lie. 
I am caught at intersection point, 
attempting to busy myself by etching out words on the graveyard.

"Come be my savior."
You are not there, and you will never be.
You, my darling, are a lie as well. 

I am not able to kick, or writhe, or scream,
for I am trying to jot down what I'm thinking.
And sometimes when you don't know what you're thinking or why you're thinking,
you just remain completely frozen, with your breath ****** straight out of your lungs 
by those you love the most. 

I can never rely on anyone. 
Nobody cares about you no matter how much they state they do.
They are all a lie, too. 

I am immortal, and I am utterly dead.
I can hardly feel my fingertips at the touch of this pen 
as I am encompassed by a numbness so cold it burns.
For I am a lie, as well.