Insert possible Trigger Warning for my fuckity bluntness today*

God knows if you've read a lot of my work, you know I am all about the metaphors and symbolism and all of that, right? I twist everything into run on sentences of Wonderland madness and all of that.

Well, today, **** that.

You heard me. **** my words and my poetry, today we are being blunt, as blunt as a person who feels uncomfortable at the mere mention of some words when she's feeling down. But this isn't about me right now. Well it is, but not. Anyway, here we go.

You know what ******* *****?

Suicidal thoughts. And thoughts of cutting. And insane impulses. And moving vehicles and how nice it sounds to jump in front of one sometimes, even if its simply because you want to know what it feels like.

I lie a lot, ok? I am probably able to be diagnosed as a pathological liar at this point, if we want to be ******* honest for once, because I am so scared of terrifying people and hurting them and making them feel bad that I keep the truth inside. I tell snippets or water-downed versions, but I literally want to bash my skull in half the time from unwanted impulses or put myself in a straight-jacket for how nice causing myself pain sounds. Its crazy, I know its crazy, but its my head and its me and that's a hard thing to live with when saying 'I'm not like the other girls' stops being a fashion statement and turns into a curse.

Impulses and impulsiveness in general is not ******* cute, ok? I look at a car and I want to run into it. I see any attractive person and I wonder what it would be like to flirt and kiss and see their body naked. I see a train and wonder what it would be like to run away. I finish a book and I want to publish and quit school and be a full time author with half a writing degree. I see a knife and I wonder what it'd be like to stab someone with it. I am not suicidal or nymphomaniac or a murderer, and I don't truly want to do any of these, but the ******* impulses. In that moment its the only thing that sounds like a good idea, and I feel my body pull towards it. Just one step into the street, just a few hours of running away, just a little cut. I all ******* sick and I know it but its my head and though I control them better now I can't stop them.

I can't change people either. And because of my fuckity condition of moods and impulses if I get sad and get a suicidal impulse, it latches on like a *****. And I want it to stop and I want to feel better and I want help, but how do you tell your friends that the one little sentence they said turned you into a death-seeking mess?

I'm broken, and I'm ******* hella crazy, but I still want to be human. I want to be treated like I'm a person and not a ticking time bomb. I hate telling people anything going on in my head because I don't want to be treated like I'm some invalid. I am valid, I am real, and I don't deserve to be treated like a monster when I never do anything, I just have these ******* impulses.

****, ****, ****, **** impulses.

I hate impulses.

I am fully aware I'd feel empty without my range of emotion, but can the impulses go away, please? I don't want to even contemplate cheating on my boyfriend when its nothing that I want, I don't want to be afraid the impulses might get me to jump off the nearest bridge, and I don't want to cut my wrists.

I am fully aware people can't always get what they want, but why the hell do I have to fight a raging hell-monster that whispers all the things no one should do? Why do I get that special ******* pleasure? If this is some sort of 'gift' to make me stronger, guess what? I. Don't. Want. It.

I just want to be a normal quirky girl who's a little emotional and likes to write stories. Why is that such a hard dream?

And by the way?

I still ******* hate impulses.

how do you say ******* to the world without admitting you are giving up. **** **** fuckity. I know I am classy. Lady like. So put together, but ironically I know who I am and this will un- cluster **** itself eventually. I am okay, but seriously universe what are you trying to prove? So again i ask, how so you say ******* world without admitting you gave something up? A little bit of hope, of innocence, of faith in something. But I have given something up. so I suppose I should able to express my loss however makes me feel better.
*you dont say ******* to the world without admitting you have given up on something.

you still make me restless

Destroyed in seconds
Cremation of Creation.
My Gut ACHES
So many cuts
so many stitches
Wee hours of my life
down the drain
I aM ****** up
I hurt bad
My ******* iron
burned insane
killed my new creation
now it is lame
fuckity **** ****
my return to the sewing world
needs some luck

blab fuckity **** **** gab
buncha tryin to be some-
thing real or whole

x-press(ion) squeezing pleads
into hypnotic hymnal
humming breathe

up my thighs
now, not numb
but tingling throes

I feel all the
nothings winking
at everything con-
tained therein

and I squirm
toward the right

where it
overflowed

“I’ve had enough pain for a lifetime.”

She’ll hurt again,
no doubt,
but maybe she won’t go looking for it this time.

She was the storm chaser
proving her strength
to none but herself.

“The bigger, the badder, the better.”

Now she relates more to soldiers
than she could to anyone intact.
Flashbacks abound,
she’s what you might call a damaged girl.

Maybe it’s low self worth;
maybe she’s stubborn as hell;
maybe she only feels her power
when she’s at war.

“Oh fuckity ****!”

She’s so broken now;
she’s so sad now;
she’s so afraid now.
“I think I’m broken now.”

Who broke this storm chaser?

It’s a feat to scare the fearless;
it’s a talent to break the strong.
You should be proud of yourself:
you’re a special kind of *******
if “you broke the storm chaser.”