The tears?
They come and go.
With thoughts of
self-hatred.
With actions of
self-loathing.
Among the knowledge
that people
love me,
want me,
care for me.
So the tears,
they keep on coming.
Because the fight
of feelings
against myself,
for me,
never stops.
Even when I want it to.

My mind is
a Van Gogh painting.
Swirls of color
true to feelings
and full of truth.

There are shades of blue
and grey
and black.
They run together
in the feelings of darkness
and truth of depression.

There are shades of orange
and yellow
and red.
They run together
in feelings of nervousness
and truth of anxiety.

There are shades of purple
and pink
and gold.
They run together
in feelings of love
and truth of joy.

The colors run.
The feelings mix.
The truths disappear.
Into the mind
of the sick girl.
Who doesn't look it.

"When I dropped him, I shattered"**
the jagged body parts that hadn't
seen a regular shower since the
sadness kicked in
slit into my arms in shapes
people only recognise as a
cry for help.

I recoil from my reflection,
even my face feels foreign
but that doesn't compare to this
detachment; being unable to
recognise my own family in
a sea of unknown faces.
Bruises that I don't remember,
no recollection of a time before.

My body is in a state of flux,
moving with the objects
around me and no matter
how hard I try to ground myself,
6 hours becomes 24 becomes 48
and I'm screaming out for attention
silently, hoping that someone will
convince me that it is real.
That I am me and you are you -
just don't shut your eyes;
the darkness is where it really begins.

they always said,
"the only one
who will always
be there for you
is yourself",

but ive always thought -
if no one else
cares
about me,
why should i
care
about myself?