I was always slightly annoyed
he said hello for just a little too long
my eyes and feet cast toward the door
he sat with tea in a public pass through
too many eyes would pass over
mine included
I found out why,
don't remember what sparked it
shrugs
"I don't really have any friends"
casual acceptance
he greeted everyone with a smile
my heart hurt
not many, but any
to him it was another day
my thoughts counteracted my actions
and I let him be
the next day too
and every time after I found out
feeling bad, but not enough to make a change
I won't see him next year
I wish I were a better person.

Late rise
Mentally wise
But still dozing
Dull feeling
Hot coffee getting cold
Mind not alert and bold
Loitering on the lawn
Yawning at dawn
Reading newspaper
Especially the film column
Fighting of stars ****
Unwilling to take bath
Visiting the lonely path
Listening old songs
Playing on table with throng

Fourteen never tasted you
But I still need you like a crutch
Like something to keep me afloat when I feel like
I'm drowning

You see, the pretty, skinny girls
The ones who are allowed to fall apart
Pieces of you they exhale
Leave a solemn marker on this saddened planet.

You see, pretty skinny girls
The ones who suit anorexia so **** well
Wear a pretty shade of starving
And cry themselves to sleep within stark hospital walls

You see, pretty skinny girls
The ones who don't take up any space
Praised for their alternative music and long socks because
Hey.
At least they're alive.

Do you see how different we are.
We are the freedom seekers who never get justice
We are the ones that got left behind
We are the ones who's diagnosis didnt fit
Simply because our numbers didnt
Into the category of deathly

I need you like a crutch
Because nothing I have
and nothing I am
Quite equates to their criteria of needing help.
No matter how quietly i whisper to you under bedsheets
Or scream it out to my father, those three words
That are already hard enough to ******* admit
no
no.
They are still.
Still.
Not enough for you.

I need help.

Fourteen learned to roll cigarettes when she was seven
But made an oath to herself of never ever
but now she needs a salvation

It's like I've been fighting the ocean for long enough
Finally decided c i cant fight alone anymore
Yet the lifeguards only saved the one who was visible in the sea
Oblivious to the fact fourteen was on the brink
Of drowning in her own tears.

Fourteen looks up to the sky and counts the stars
Like marlboro lights she counts the flamed atmosphere
Wondering how life could get worse than this.
And she waits for something to come
something to save her
A helping hand or a speeding car
Lying in the middle of the road often carried that risk.


She's in love with him and its a ******* tragedy
She doesnt know if shes too much for him or not enough
She's being abused and its a ******* tragedy
She doesnt know if the bruises shes acquiring are just in her head
She's losing touch with her friends and its a ******* tragedy
She knows they arent paying attention.

So what more can she do
But dream of feeding herself to the ocean
A current in place of a current affair and
A slow and fulfulling peace.

Fourteen stares at the sky with the
soft ripples of sand beneath her feet
counts the stars like marlboro lights
takes a breath, and gives herself  
One
more
chance

Family, they say, who do you have;
and you go: mother, father;
stop cold.

The Japanese version of the word, kazoku, means siblings over all blood relations, isn’t necessarily inclusive of parents, is one of the few words where the Japanese version of it makes you pause over the English one.

The you, the old one, in 1st grade of the distant past,
she comes up with more names eventually,
and without much pause;
she goes grandmother, grandfather, (great) aunts 1 through 4, 2nd cousins here, 3rd cousins there, and oh, the 9 first cousins on her mother’s side, 1 aunt, 3 uncles, mother’s mom’s sister, other great aunt, her children — she loses count. (besides, her teacher makes her stop after grandparents.)


Family, they say, who do you have;
and you go: father (genuinely), mother (out of habit);
stop cold.

And the people you love who don’t love you back;
you are starting to gradually tear their influence
away from your heart.

Your grandparents; the alive ones (their names will come back if they stop identifying different with bad; will be torn the rest of the way off, like an infected limb from the rest of the body, if (when) they realize the tie of different to you.)

Aunt 4, of the open minded branch (if it ever comes to the schism, there’s a chance she might choose you - but you would send her back away, refuse to take away her grandchildren for her great niece.)

Your friends
(And this is just waiting until the day you believe it, because you’ll always be terrified to say it. Family is made, family is more than blood, but your breath catches because everybody leaves, and you don’t quite have enough courage to say it yet - will never quite muster up the courage until it is no longer true.)

Your mother
(because she’ll always choose you but never enough; always a rejection in secret because she must not know and you must not hurt where she can see you.)

Family, they say, who do you have;
and you take a breath
and smile like it’s not fake
like that word hasn’t been fractured beyond repair for a while now,
and dearest, you lie.

i tell you i’ve had a bad day
my depression whacked me
upside the head
and i cried on the bathroom floor

and you share photos
of a quaint forest path
saying that is the real cure for depression
and the pills i take
are a lifelong addiction because
if the pills really did work
then i wouldn’t still be on them
until your fingers ****** bleed

as if my mental illness
is a nasty cold
that requires antibiotics
for about a month
and once i am “better”
i’ll be okay on my own

you treat my pills bottles
like a crutch that makes me weak
like i am a bad person for trying
to live my life worth living
a life which just so happens
to be medicated

and that comes from such
a place of privilege
you and your stupid pictures
of forest paths that have nothing
to do with depression
and anxiety
and screaming hallucinations
that have left me
sobbing on the floor
making myself bleed until
i can tell what’s real again

my mental illness is a chronic thing
even when i am stable
i will never stop being mentally ill
just because i have more good days
than bad doesn’t mean i can cold-turkey
the very things that
keep me functioning
without losing my mind

and when i did try
to go off the meds in high school
you smiled and told me how
brave i was
how strong
how i didn’t need the medication

and days later when i
spent two hours sobbing
until i almost puked
because of the lasagna i had
accidentally burnt to a crisp
you laughed at me
and my tears
and told me to **** it up
to man up
to just be happy

like you telling me to
just be happy
will replace the serotonin my
brain can’t produce enough
of on its own

like you calling me weak
for being on medication
will take away the very real
truth that without
taking those pills every morning
i would have tried to ****
myself again and would
have probably succeeded that time

like you sharing your
pictures of forest paths
and demonstrating your complete
and utter lack of knowledge as to
how medication that isn’t antibiotics works
will suddenly fix
what is broken in my brain

but you take medication
that a doctor prescribes when you
are sick enough for that
to be needed
and nobody calls you weak

and when you break a bone
you get it set in plaster
well i can’t put a cast on
the cracks in my psyche

so i do the next best thing
because if your brain can’t
produce enough serotonin
to keep you wanting to live
all on its own
then store-bought is fine

(and you turning on me
when my mental illness stops
being something i can manage
on my own
says more about you
than it ever will about me)

A writer, aspiring poet,
constantly afraid that she’ll blow it.
A daughter, loving sister,
insecure that anyone could ever miss her.

A misfit, won’t ever quit,
pretends she doesn’t actually give a ****.
A poser, laughably mediocre,
she draws her originality from the ones before her.

A reckless forgiver, a generous spender,
hold her back and you’ll most definitely suffer.
A blunt speaker, a big dreamer,
bitterly honest because she couldn’t ever stand being known as a liar.

A level six sorceress, an RPG-er,
she’s a d20 that never manages to roll a high number.
A voice with many accents, a toolbox filled with talent,
she wants to voice the characters in a first-person shooter.


                                                       *

But mostly, she’s the girl
who overwaters flowers
because she feels bad for them.

Who dyes her hair bright colors
because she gets bored
and simply for the hell of it.

Who battled cancer for over a year
but can’t manage
to call herself a survivor.

Who wrote this poem
even though she thought
she didn’t have the words for it.

I bubbled with a rainbow of emotions,
They needed motion.
I channelled them into thoughts,
Soon they took shape into words.
I learned to pen them,
Compose them as poems.
My poems needed an outlet
Needed to be read and shared.
Thank you Hello Poetry and readers for giving me that chance.

He said,"Wear the prettiest thing you have."

I
           Wore
      
                    My

                           *SMILE

I can't eat
Sleeping through the night
is almost impossible
My body feels heavy
Everything that I used to enjoy
seems useless

I know there's a name for it
But I don't want to say it
I can't come to terms with the thing
that I've been dealing with
since I was 13

For fear that no one believes me
I don't want to be seen as weak
And I'm not trying to seek attention
I just don't know what to do with myself

Something is wrong with me
And I'm not sure why
But I don't let it consume me like I used to
So it is what it is
I'm sure I'll get by