In a perfect world,
I could hide my scars
until they finally soften
and fade,
and then the t-shirts could
adorn my shoulders
just like they did before.
I could speak my mind
with no resistance,
and I would not worry
about another's opinions
because all that would matter
would be me
and my thoughts.

But this is not Utopia
and my scars are still here,
and they burn searing red
for so long that
it's too much to hide,
and I slip up
and I wear short sleeves.
And I constantly fear
of what others will think,
with scenes in my head
sending me over the edge
into a place
where my thoughts can ****,
and I'm not in Utopia at all.

And she cried
because
the ones that she loved
could not see her
for the
cruel,
sick,
masochistic wretch
that she was.

The tell her that she has the world
at her fingertips;
she knows and understands and helps,
and loves and learns and gains
everything that she could
ever want.
They tell her that she can charm her way
through anything--
I mean, listen to her voice!
look at those eyes!
Tell me that they could not possibly
lure
you
in?

But what they do not know
is the strength of the string
that is looped around her fingers,
connecting the world to her hand,
letting it twist and twitch with every
flip of her wrist.
They do not know that the strings are
loosely-looped nylon,
slipping and falling and simply
requiring
so much work.
She cannot look away, and must always
readjust.

What they do not know
is how hard she works
to keep the world
at her fingertips.

Raindrops on roses
and making men
bump their heads
to keep us
staring out of our windows
or stuck in our beds.

I fear that I am
soon nearing the end
in a place where I should
never have to pretend.
It's emptiness come where
there's happiness lost,
and from trying to please
I am feeling the cost.

It's a slow, deep breath in
and a labored one out
holding silence together
where there should be a shout;
a signal to say
that the pain's ripping through--
even if there was, there'd be nothing to do
but to sit by and observe
my God given fate
my emotions dissolve,
and health disintegrate.

So I sit and I stare
at the cuts on my wrist
wondering how long it took
just to come down to this.
Now my being is filled
with an empty black space,
a well practiced smile
grows large on my face.

So I fear that I am
soon reaching the end
in a place where I know nothing
but how to pretend.

I can feel you slipping away from me;
imagine what it’ll be like without you again,
because it’ll be different than not knowing you at all.
As I sit on my bed and write
I can feel the empty place next to me
where you should be playing with your iPod
and cracking jokes,
singing and rolling over on your back with laughter
after we sang a funny lyric.

I’m imagining lying here with you,
discussing and smiling and giggling over
my first kiss, and yours,
but somehow the memory
leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.

I’m reliving you and him
and I, the one on the sidelines,
the one spectating while the game is being played.
And I’m not even keeping score, not even waving a flag.
I’m the invisible onlooker, the one who doesn’t want to be there;
the high school student stuck
at a basketball game because they don’t have a ride home.

And no, it doesn’t matter what you tell me,
how much you say that you don’t mean
to leave me out or keep me at bay,
here you are, doing it again and again and again.
And it doesn’t matter how much you apologize,

because I’m starting to get the feeling of being replaced.

I am literate in daydreams
and letting my imagination rule my head

I am literate in music
where rationale can be abandoned.

I am literate in procrastination,
pushing away my mind-defying.

I am literate in heartbreak
which has been already over-endured.

I am literate in lazy weekends
spent with my sister and a remote.

I am literate in creating;
not masterpieces, but heart and soul pieces.

I am literate in ramen noodle and green tea afternoons
in sweatpants and sneakers with no makeup on.

I am literate in moment-capturing
and finding the right words to explain.

I am literate in thunderstorms
and dancing in between water droplets.

I am literate in heart confessions
over acoustic guitars and games of solitaire.

I am literate in wanting
and taking away from what I already have.

I am literate in wanderlust
and a wholehearted need to escape.

I am literate in color-coordination and clothing arranging
and bringing out all my best.

I am literate in kissing with desperation
and wanting to have it be effortless.

I am literate in wasting my time
in my head, in my heart, and in the clouds.

I am literate in everything mentioned
and so much that I can’t even say.