WELCOME TO SHRAPNEL CITY, SPITTING ***** OUT LIKE BULLETS, OR PEOPLE, OR GRAINS OF SAND, OR PLANETARY SYSTEMS. I SAY “I THINK THERE'S SOMETHING ****** UP IN MY HEAD” LIKE SOME PEOPLE SAY “IT'S RAINING OUTSIDE” AND MAYBE THAT'S REALLY ****** UP BUT I CAN'T WAIT FOR SOMEONE TO ROMANTICIZE ME WHAT IF THERE'S SOMETHING WRONG WITH ME BUT THAT'S OKAY, IT'S NOT VIOLENT OR NASTY OR ******, SO THAT MEANS IT'S HEALTHY, RIGHT? THAT MEANS WE'RE HEALTHY, RIGHT? EVERYONE HAS BAD DAYS, SWEETHEART I WANT TO DRAW EYES ON MY WHOLE BODY, COVER MYSELF IN SOMETHING GOOD, PEEL OFF MY SKIN AND MAKE IT INTO A SONG THAT OTHER PEOPLE CAN BLEED / CRY / SMOKE TO (THIS IS MY DREAM, I SAY, AND I THINK YOU MIGHT BELIEVE ME). I HAVE A DEATHLY FEAR OF CHOKING BUT I LIKE IT WHEN MY CATS SCRATCH ME BECAUSE IT GIVES ME AN EXCUSE TO BLEED THAT I DON'T USUALLY HAVE, AND ISN'T THAT JUST SO WEIRD? ISN'T THAT SO CUTE? DON'T LOOK AT MY LEGS, OR MY FINGERS, OR MY SCALP, DON'T ASK IF I'VE BEEN GETTING ENOUGH SLEEP. IGNORE THAT I EXIST (I DON'T). IT'S OKAY, I WON'T MIND. I WEAR SWEATERS ALL THE TIME SO NO ONE CAN SEE MY CHEST AND I SAY IT'S A GENDER THING BUT ACTUALLY IT'S MORE LIKE AN I-HAVE-SCRATCH-MARKS-AND-SCARS-ALL-OVER-MY-CHEST-AND-I-THINK-I'M-­BECOMING-LESS-OF-A-REAL-PERSON THING. IS THAT MESSED UP? IS THAT WEIRD? IS THAT CUTE? I'LL PUT IT ON A T-SHIRT, MAYBE. IT'S NOT SELF HARM, I JUST DON'T LIKE HAVING BUMPS ON MY BODY. DOES THAT MAKE IT BETTER? DO YOU FEEL LIKE A HERO YET? I'M GLAD I'M GLAD I'M GLAD I'M GLAD I'M GLAD I'M GLAD I'M GLAD I'M GLAD I'M GLAD I'M GLAD I'M GLAD I'M GLAD I'M GLAD I REALLY AM

I can cling to a golden thread of desperation if you put it within my reach
I can wrap it around my fingers and toes
I hope to cut off circulation until every breath of mine is a beautiful violet
I can twirl on the tips of my toes until the world around me turns faster and I am standing still
I'm not in wonderland
My teeth are made of glass but no matter how hard I clench my jaw, they refuse to break
My eyes are growing blades of grass within them but my ******* lawn mower won't start
Why do I always expect to be cared about?
Why are you always the martyr?
Why is it my job to take care of you when I still have to learn how to take care of myself?
Why can't you let branches grow from yourself and be your own **** person?
You follow in my footsteps like you are afraid of making your own imprint on this earth
Dig your feet into the ground and stomp
Create earthquakes with the impact
Shake down every brick building that was built up to block the sun from reaching your eyes
I was not put on this earth to be your protector
Your protector is within the thread of the leash you tied around my neck
I'm choking on air and you pluck it out of my mouth and swallow it whole and still complain of not being able to breath
Stop walking behind me and start running beside me
Gold is only found where you look and so far, you pretend to be blind
Stick legs don't bend but they break pretty **** easily
The flowers sprouting out of my ears are wilting
Recycled ideas should not fill your head
Your own ideas should
The thread tied around my wrists is yellow and black
I can't find the strength to snap it
I'll spend my empty days unraveling it, only getting it tangled up again

“instructions on how to destroy yourself from the ground up, and vice versa”
i say i think i am a better ghost-- and she says, dont be so cliche
this isnt a fairytale, this isnt Wonderland
, but i was born shoving the barrel of a gun down my throat like it was someone else’s tongue
and after a while they start to taste the same
less like a herald and more like sour lips curling around a sentence over and over “nobody exists anymore
welcome to the Forgotten era--”
swallowing glass just so my throat wont feel so empty
when she kisses me she says shes sorry
when she says my name it sounds like a swearword, like her mouth is too brittle to sound it out right
“instructions on how to build the perfect barricade”, start with enough wood to burn yourself to the ground
start over. start over. start over.
(seventeen crumpled dollars and a neon sign that says WELCOME TO PARADIS, comical in a way that makes a nine year old on a too-small bike start crying)
We Need To Talk / cutting your bangs uneven with a pair of scissors you found in an abandoned building / LACHRYMAL: CONNECTED WITH WEEPING OR TEARS
“instructions on how to change the way your name sounds”
i bleed empty promises,call people in the middle of the night just to say that I’m Fine
(i dont even remember the last time i ****** awake coughing up consonants, trying to
rebuild myself, i swear!)
she says my name right and it’s a tuesday. there are guns on a basement wall twenty miles away
, and it’s raining outside
, and she tells me she likes the way it sounds
(she swallows it whole)

I have lung made of paper bags
                                                            ­                      and a spine made of glass.
I spend my life walking on thin ice,
                                                            ­                 knowing that if I slip I will break.
I can't walk with great posture,
                                                        ­                because the weight on my shoulders.
My mind is full of cliche metaphors
                                                       ­                 and clouded with the stress of living.
The more I panic and my breathing increases,
                                                   the­ more my paper bags start to strain and crinkle.
The more I walk around with the weight I try to carry,
                                                          ­       the risk of shattering my glass spine rises.
My eyes are closed,
                                                 and my hands are ***** from trying to dig myself up.
To stop my lungs from straining,
                                                                    I stop myself from breathing.
To lessen the risk of my spine breaking,
                                                               I lay in bed and never move around.

Trigger warning:



I thought there was love in your eyes
When all that was there was lust.

I thought you wanted to hold my hand,
But all you wanted was in my pants.

You mistook my "No"s for moans,
Regardless that there was tears in my eyes.

You left me alone after,
And I haven't seen you since it happened.

Left by the roadside to rot,
Dirt in my knotted hair.

I still can't walk at night without fear,
And I haven't felt alive since the day you killed what was inside.

1.  I just couldn't stop myself from falling and suddenly realized, I didn't want to.

2. Thank you for making my time feel worth something.

3. This is the third time I've wrote this and it still doesn't explain much...I'm sorry.

4. I haven't slept for two weeks because of you and I hope you still think I'm cute with these bags under my eyes.

5. All the ***** couldn't drown my love for you and never once did it make me forget your name; only my own.

6. There are over one million thoughts going through my head everyday, and I still haven't mastered the art of putting them on paper but maybe one part of this will mean something.

7. It's hard for me to explain what's going through my head right now...but I've thinking about you all night.

8. I just had to say this before it was too late but hell, I'm barely on time for class each day.

9. I wanted to wait for the perfect time, but that wait would last forever.

10. I don't know how to be alone and I hoped someday that you'd fill in the empty space in my bed.

11. My hands are shaking and I don't know if I am scared, nervous or anxious; but I know this time I won't chicken out.

12. I just had to get this weight off my chest and god, I almost forgot what it was like to really breathe.

13. I am tired of being afraid.