I’m in love with the way it
feels to look at you and hope
you are mine, to watch your
mannerisms and copy you to
be with you, to admire you
hair and your eyes and your
nose and your ears and your neck and—

If you ever found this,
you must think I’m strange
for looking at you so much.

He was wearing blue
that one fatal night.
That night that would lead me
to wanting you in a way I shouldn’t.
At this age, I don’t know love,
I only know love for family, not you.
Or so it seems.

When I am young,
they assume I know nothing.
Maybe I don't but this is certainly
not child-neglect coming into play.

Non-existent child-neglect.

I hope you’re okay, I really do.
You don’t know how hard it is to
try and keep your mind whilst thinking
about some boy every second.

You plague my thoughts like
fruit flies on an orange
except I like everything about it.
I like hiding it from everyone,
especially you,
especially me.

You were wearing blue that fateful night
that I realised my heart was doomed.

An angel has been so kind in creating you.

The devil has been so evil in creating “us”, however.
So cruel in creating a figment of my love-lorn and love-lost mindset.

So cruel, so I laugh at my half baked chances of talking or making you feel this way.

Running for my life from the snap about to come
Something is going to turn red
My eyes or her throat? Maybe both

Have a feeling I'm going to slide back into the old way.
Quit digesting even though I've seen things online
Quit talking even though my it’s my favourite
Quit the friends even though they're the only thing keeping me going
but won’t quit school.

They can all go to hell, but for all they know:
You're my best friends and I love you guys so much
and I hope we live together and I hope we stay best friends.
I hope we stay until we're old and wrinkly and hate each other.
I already hate you actually.

My body is made of stone.
My skeleton is made up of hellish things.
The hellish things that the weak are all familiar with.
We take them and turn them into weapons.
We turn our weapons on those who made
us like this. Thanks to them,
we are feared by them.
You could say it’s the perfect circle.

Trouble is coming to them and they won't be prepared.

tick, tick, tick.
tick, tick, tick.
the silence is filled
with a steady pulse.
a calming, steady rhyme.
so soft a sound, it could
send me to sleep.

then, an incessant whine
slowly feeds into my
intravenous drip.

We’re thicker than blood.
We don’t share rudeness.
But, once in a blue moon, it happens.

A soirée.
Opposite sides.
One room, two minds.

Except a new monde comes into play.
Brawny, stunning, dark natured.
Everything you aren’t.

I don't argue with idiots.
But you are always so infuriatingly wrong
that I just have to jump in and tell you.

I tell you how rude and unforgivable you are.
How you expect everyone to adore you,
but, honey, I have some advice;
you can't make people like you.

Take that as a compliment.
You'll thank me later.
And then I can say
I told you so.

She was a bright relief
from all the bitty boys.
made me laugh,
made me nervous,
made me happy.
But, of course, it
had to end.

The end came from my night
mind. Too many questions
about the future turned me
from any future with her.

To be truthful, I never saw
anything with her. Maybe I
just faked it for the novelty
of a girl being interested in
me when no boy ever was.

In the end,
only then did I realise that
she was the paperweight,
I, the paper.
It only took a strong wind,
namely the depths of my mind,
to lift her from me and
reveal how I truly felt
about her.
Just a paperweight.
No huge importance.

Of course.

I'm not suicidal, don't worry.
I'm just passive suicidal. I
think that people don't see it
as a proper condition as we
haven't actually attempted.
We only get sympathy from
those who are the same, no
one else.

With mercury in my hand, I
repeat: "I don't want to die,
sometimes wish I'd never
been born at all." Me too.

Maybe it’s for the best
that I feel like I’m on the
outside. Maybe it’s for
the best that I feel the
need to stay quiet.

Maybe they don’t belong
here for me, but they belong
for making me realise what
I need in the absence of them.

The first cracks are beginning
to show in my teeth. All the
******* you make me chew
on is making my teeth break.

I had a dream where my teeth
fell out. And all you did was laugh.
Maybe I was foreseeing the
future, somehow, because now,
all you can do is laugh at me.

The first cracks are beginning
to show in my teeth. It hurts
like your face. The ache I’m
getting is nothing I’ve felt before.

The moon was yellow.
Or maybe orange. There
was a sheen to it. It was
too close for my liking.

It felt as though I could see
every crack and every crag
in the surface of the moon.

The orange sheen made it
look superficial. I couldn’t
tear my eyes away, for good
or for bad.

With the city light beneath,
it looked as though we were
the sky with the twinkling lights

and the moon was an ocean pebble.

One drop, and the whole sky would shatter.

“I felt there was no
point in telling
anyone anything
that was happening
inside of me.”

Once I saw that,
I felt my purpose in
life had been fulfilled.

Once I realised that
I may be the main character
in my life and the background
in someone else’s, I rejoiced.
The “someone else” being my
best friend.

Once I know that I will depart their lives in either one day or one year, life becomes so much easier.

She stands infront of my path
as it to get my attention.
I pretend to fumble with my planner
and I walk past her.
I hear their laughs over the crowd.
They’re laughing at me, aren’t they?

But I have my planner dog eared.
I was already open on this week.
I was fumbling purposefully with last week.
I knew exactly what she was doing.
And I purposefully ignored her.
Why do I hate her so much?
Why am I so non-verbal when I feel sad?

Don't know if I want to
drink this coffee or smash
the cup on my head.

Maybe it would look great
with coffee staining my face
like the pages from an old diary.

Maybe I am just a bunch of words
but you can't read all of them
because of the coffee staining
the pages and the words and my life.

The only thing that separates me
from Plath is that my words are
either written by a child or by someone
illiterate or by someone sad or by me.

I feel like a tree in summer
plenty of outside, so you
may not see the rotting inside.
Birds peck at me all day
even when the sky turns blue
in the winter dark, my insides are still able to hide.

Sometimes I feel for my dog's heartbeat
because I know, at nine and a half years,
she hasn't got long left.

Sometimes I think about how I will react
when a death happpens.
Will I cry? Will I scream?
And then I feel guilty for imagining such a thing.

Sometimes I wonder how my friends
would react for me.
Would they shed tears?
Maybe not.
At this point, they'd probably
shrug and say they didn't know.

My mind has felt different recently.
It's not normal,
compared to people my age.
I shouldn't be this way.
I care about things my friends don't,
but they think they're empathetic.

They ignore the mssages
written on clothing tags,
but I'm wise enough not
to buy those clothes.

I have overwhelming dread
over my future and what to become.
But people say to relax
and let life take its course.
If I let life take me places,
it would take me to a mortuary.

She gives me mixed feelings.
a week ago, I thought no one wanted me alive,
but now she's able to look me in the eye.
I've noticed she laughs with me now.

Is it me or are people just being fake?

The only consistency right now,
in this moment,
as I sit in bed at 12:01 am,
writing this,
is that I know that my pen will never
catch my head up, my thoughts.
I don’t like using the word “brain”,
it feels too technical, even though I am.

I don’t want to get old.
When “What do you want to be when you grow up?”
became “What are you going to do?”
was when I realised how badly
I want time to stop.
I know a way to make time stop.
A permanent solution to a temporary problem.
Or maybe my problem is also permanent.

I want a break
so my pen can catch my brain up
and so I can finally piece together
a suitable future.
Will my parents be proud?
Of course they will, it’s their job.

It’s now 12:06. Thank you.

Flat on my back,
I wonder if I should redecorate my room before I go.
If I ever have the guts to go.
Sorry, not “guts”.

Sitting up slightly,
I realise something:
If I were to go now,
I wouldn’t leave any of
my “friends” a note.
Maybe they’d wonder why they didn’t get one,
but one can’t be too hopeful in this filthy world.

Standing infront of my covered mirror,
I try to see through the blue
fog of my jumper to what they call my face.

No, I wouldn’t leave them the letters,
but I would make sure to leave my family some.

My best friend is called Lola.
“It’s short for Dolores,” she told me,
before she became someone else.

She liked music, reading, English lessons at school, doing homework, dying her hair, cutting her hair, painting, drawing.
Anything that had creativity.

I gradually became to hate her
over the course of a few minutes
I saw a video about not being enough.
The comments were filled with:
“Everybody is so much prettier.”
“Why can’t I be like them?”
“I’m the ugliest of my friends.”
They all resonated with me.

Then I realised that out of all my friends,
she was the only pretty one.

I won’t bother describing
as beauty is subjective.
But, to me, she was everything
I wanted to be and everything
boys wanted these days.
She had multiple boys that liked her.

Me? You know the answer; don’t lie.

She never seems to take the boys anywhere,
she just talks to them civilly,
giving them mixed signals;
like my face.

I always make sure I look happy.

The point is:
Lola is everything I’m not.
Lola has boys for plenty, yet look at me.
Lola has a balance between grades and life, but I can’t even regulate my emotions properly.
I hate her so ******* much.

Lola was my best friend.
She probably got so sick of me
so she moved on.
I can’t move.
I hate Lola.

I realise that the
mere thought of doing
anything with my friends
sends me into eternal sadness
because I am just a
vessel, a nobody, just
someone who hangs around
because they have no one else.

I think I wanted to be a surgeon
at one point,
but I now know that it’s just
another uneaten fig on
Plath’s fig tree.

I’m on the red eye.
Sleep is the connected state
of mind that they all share.
Then we jolt awake.
The plane is no longer
and the pilot was never.
I can see out of the window.
It is coming closer, dressed as death.
We hit it, I go out.
Then I wake up.
Cliché.

once the rain has stopped
the bad thoughts flood through.
my mind darkens and the clouds lighten.
they lighten their load
but mine becomes heavier.

i look at the time;
don’t trust anyone after nine PM,
not even yourself.

then again, i can’t trust anyone
anymore, not even during the day.

“Just disappear,” I echo.
Not out loud, obviously.
No one would pay attention.
No, no one does pay attention.

“It’s easy,” I think.
Just take the razor.
The razor that makes me
feel reminiscent of 1984.

“Red’s a beautiful colour,” I bargain.
If I could see the aftermath,
if I could see the red stain their lives,
then I'd find happiness at least once.

“The pain is worthwhile,” I gaslight.
The blue nile visits me,
not in dreams, but in my ears.
I send myself downtown lights,
and hope someone sees the ones and zeros.