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.
But it’s not right, even though I am.

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 Lola.

Lola was my best friend.
She probably got 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.