Run through expensive hotels
Just to come home, play Mario Kart in our underwear
A high-stake love, we burn like fire and cry like monsoons
Holiday flashes become traditions,
Movements of our hands and our arms keep the peace
The making of our love sneaky and frequent.

Ask you to run away with me into the moonlight
To never be seen again
Messy wild and barely free
Eighteen with too many cares and too many scars to hold alone
So let's hold them together
You can't heal my wounds
But you help relieve the pain

Four hands and two hearts ache for one another
Let's build a fort under your desk
Stay there till the morning light.
Movies I can't help to sleep through
Making out through every *** scene
l'll spoon you, kiss your bare back
Hold you tighter than

Drive until there's no more road,
Hands on knees light in the rearview mirror
driving in lingerie just for the ******* risk

Showers shared soothe the soul so hold me close and dear
Wash my hair and I'll wash yours.
The spot in my back that only you can reach.
Feel your heart beat through your chest
Your wet hair slicked back
Piercing blue eyes that melt me like wax and a flame
you are my flame.

We're messy and wild and inconsistent and angry and loving and full of so much.
Keep me safe and ill keep you wild
Until you return, my dear.

I’m hurt
But always from the point of my own sword
The problems cease to fade however skin unscathed leaves me unfulfilled.
I am a disease to my own mind,
Falling deeper into this depression, not falling, walking, I have the power to change direction but don’t know how.
Happy is threatening.
Happy is unsafe.
Happy has never been safe.
Happy means danger is hiding around the corner and if something else doesn’t cause it then it must be thine wounds that cause another’s.
Unhappy in love yet I am perpetually the problem. An outsider sabotaging the loveliness, a few days apart and suddenly a knife is drawn at the throat of an undeserving victim.
Because happy was never good enough for me.
Empty and jarring and sad and sorry and a passenger to the being who wreaks havoc and distraction, the builder of walls and the entity that pulls, no, snaps the strings holding my heart together until the final
Snap
He won’t get angry
He won’t budge
In efforts of sanity and peace he lays down and takes your anger and your resentment though most belongs directed straight at you
And he doesnt say a word.
Takes your bullets and your dagger and your sword and doesn’t breathe a word of anger. Not one of discontent.
Envy and anger and black putrid feelings ebb out of my skin and touch him yet he is not the rightful barer of my wrath
I am.
The sole disaster belongs to me.
I bring the storm to the bright days.
I bring the hail to perfectly smooth bumpers.
I bring the underworld to heaven just because it’s never quite enough to keep me full.
Empty and empty and empty.
The tin man’s cries have yet to reach the emerald kingdom.
And I have yet to find my peace.

I'm tired.


and I don't mean the tired of slippery fingers and prominent yawns

I'm tired of life

I'm tired of living without a pulse my blood
running cold and
mechanical the light in my eyes no longer
there.

The blood
that runs through my veins is thin
slippery like the oil that makes the wheels
spin
without the squeak.  

I see the world as a machine
cogs turning well-oiled nobody asks you whats
wrong
outside its fine
inside the storm brews
and I'm so tired of love songs that never
explain how angry
and sad
you can be when you're in love

and how your anger isn't caused by
him
at all
yet why can't I accept that.

im jealous and im sad
that he doesn't care enough to ask why
work through it as i would him
there are certain things he doesn't
get

but since when were you easy

its not his job to know you like the back
of your scarred hands
or to make your eyes blue
they've been grey for months.  

feeling a bit Billie blue
the days get darker and yet
his reassurance does nothing but
make me fear the burden that grows with each
kiss why did i let him fall for me
why did i let him make that sacrifice
maybe its better to leave him maybe he has a chance
at happy where im not there
god knows I don't make him happy anymore.
i cant even make me happy anymore

im tired of not knowing how to love you right.
im tired of being upset.
im tired of being angry
im tired of living in your shadow
im tired of not being good enough for you
im tired of being your burden
im tired of being tired

so listen before i go

it was never you.

How must i shout my love for you
when im kept hostage by my thoughts
It seems impossible
even to see your glowing love
i feel it on me like the suns rays
M.
I
am in love with you
irretrievably.
and i hope its you.
I hope its you.

It has become customary to press a blade to the inside of my left wrist when she tells me I am worthless.

I ache for the blood to seep from my damaged skin, pumped through my body from my damaged heart.

I sit in silence and wait; for him to come in and comfort me, to show me care and compassion, but he doesn’t.
Not anymore.

It’s hours.

I made a plan in seventh grade that the anklet would stop the burn of silver.

Anklets break.
Promises break.
It all becomes okay.

After the death of my grandmother, the last time I thought I would do it, I found a red string.

Tied it around my ankle.

Promised myself I would never do it whilst it was on.

But bad days exist.
And so do scissors.

And everlasting stress that never leaves and an easy way to feel without feeling.

Blood bubbles when it seeps through the gaps in your skin.

And it hurts but what hurts more is the ache in your chest when she tells you
you're stupid
             you don't respect me
                        you owe use
                                    we own you
                                                I want to hit you
                                                            c­hange your attitude, girl
                                                            ­            Watch out
                                                             ­                       Obey me
                                                              ­                                                             I AM YOUR MOTHER  

as if mother, was a synonym for god.

Guilt and hurt and god how did I end up here again?

It's knowing the answer.

Its knowing blame is bad and modesty is good and pain is for the ones who love but love is for the ones who are free from pain.

It's having to keep silent because asking for support is like giving her another bullet
            another thing to say
                        another reason to want to die

And when you pick your own crying body up off the floor, bruises from biting and pinching and hitting and clumps of hair and tissues of blood,

It's being alone.  

Its the eerie silence that follows.

It's concealer on wrists. It's looking down to avoid eye contact. Its wishing someone would ******* notice.

it's structured loneliness.

it's the skills you had to learn all alone.

It's fighting for breath, not knowing whether to stop or breathe.

It's about helping others

                                                               ­         before ever helping yourself

It's being called worthless at the bottom of bad days

It's your own problems magnified because you don't hide them well enough

                                    It's hurting
                                                                ­       and I want it to stop

I write as the blade is pressed to my wrist once again.

and i put my phone in aeroplane mode
so i dont hear it when you dont call.
is that selfishness
or self protection.

My baby.
You’re wondering about the type of women you want to be. It’s a sad and soggy Sunday and you sit by the railing while it’s raining and the wind sighs at your presence.
You long for love, and peace, and mystery and excitement and you long to be wanted for who you are not who you could be if you were small.

My baby.
Everything you want isn’t everything you see.
Damaged isn’t pretty, my baby and maybe it looks it but the pain, oh baby the pain is like nothing you’ve ever felt.
And maybe you crave the mystery, maybe you crave the smudges mascara and the hunger pains.
But honest to truth my baby
Being this ****** up ain’t cute
Being this ****** up isn’t safe.
Being this ****** up makes you wonder what in the world is.

My baby there is nothing like the ache of being empty,
The sad and solemn nothing, the pitiless void that seldom empties but when it does you put stars in his eyes for he is the only other person with the key.
And a lot of the time the key doesn’t fit your locks,
The walls you’ve put up are brick.
Solid.
And for every brick you stack he takes one away, eager to pull them down he tries and baby one day you might stop building.
Maybe it’ll be on a soft and sunny Saturday when both of you are laughing and you see it within him.
You’ll stop building and he’ll smile knowing that
Yes.
Finally.
Free.

My baby your walls are thick and strong,
Most of the time,
Sometimes they fall but you pick them up and rebuild don’t let anyone see the truth.
He knows.

My baby the boy you love will never quiet fill your cup and it’ll break you but it’s not his job to.
You have to try too.
Because baby I know you hurt and I know you just want out of the cruel ******* world but now no.
Now you have someone to love you.
To love you for who you are and not who you would be if you were small.
Someone who loves you so that to go would be to take a piece of him with you.
Maybe that piece is the spark you fell in love with.
Baby no now you have someone to live for.

My baby I know you think smudged mascara and running away is desirable and makes them want more but baby.
On the good days you feel like a well oiled machine, task after task focus, seem well act well everybody laughs, smooth machine yet still lack the basic humanity that should consume you.

My baby on the bad days, broken down, some days you manage to trudge your way out of bed and into the daytime, empty but there,
Worse, the days where you can’t get up. Where you open the window and stare out into the garden you’ve always seen and you let the sadness and elusive sleepiness win until you’re exhausted with sleep.
Days where blades help you feel and help the anger inside you escape when the blood bubbles through your torn skin.

My baby the overthinking will drive you crazy, where the concept of an ear is weird even when he whispers sweet nothings into them and tucks that little stray piece of hair behind them.
Where *** is a mechanism by which sounds so wrong but feels so right but baby do not use it to cure the sadness.
It will always win.  

My baby home is haunting.
The ghosts of who you used to be haunt you, taunt you, and the love you used to feel is gone. Home isn’t home. Home is a house in the hillside.
Home is the space between his arms where your head rests against his chest and he breathes in to smell the coconut in your hair, home is the way he stares at you and smiles, home is the way he plays video games with you in his lap, home is his dilated pupils, home is the weird way you hold hands on the train, home is short jokes and home is when he looks at you as if you
You
You my baby
Are just absolutely spectacular
Even when you feel like a fleck of dust on this pointless world.

My baby though he is home, mental illness and distress isn’t pretty.
Panic attacks and ugly crying in public isn’t pretty. The disability of breathing isn’t pretty. Being perched over a toilet bowl isn’t pretty. Not eating for days isn’t pretty. Pulling out clumps of hair isn’t pretty. Being clumsy because you are so anaemic isn’t pretty. Passing out isn’t pretty. Wrist scars and bloodstained sheets aren’t pretty.
Being sick isn’t pretty.

Baby I wish we’d stopped when we knew.

Baby I wish help meant something because though you’ve tried,
Nothing gets through.

Baby when it rains it pours, and through every storm I have you, my hand is there to hold.
So we’ll call Noah’s arc and we’ll start a new world.
I know you’re hurting.
But my baby I promise one day we’ll be safe.
No longer shipwrecked.
My baby one day
One day
We’ll be free.