I want to be by the limitless sea
By the limitless sky
Where all things are free
Free, free, I love the word 'free'!
Nothing that homes, puppies, or life ever could be
All I know is that for centuries past
Only the sea and the sky
Knew they would last

when I walked in my stomach was screaming nerves,
my heart felt fluttery from my first of many iced black coffees.
I fixed my eyes fixed on the black hightops I stared at everyday during first period,
the peeling rubber toes pointing straight at me.

I looked up, meeting eyes with the spitting image of Kurt Cobain
who smirked at me curiously, then lifted a finger, and turned into the kitchen.
I busied myself untying my boots, even though they had zippers,
promising myself I wouldn’t loose my balance.

The high tops returned, followed by weathered leather moccasins,
who murmured through his teeth “hmmm, designing with materials girl” .
I grinned through my eyes, attempting not to make myself intimate with the floor so soon,
expertly faking breathy laugh to cover up how utterly freaked the unfamiliar title made me.

High tops grabbed my waist and twirled me into the kitchen,
offering a cigarette before disappearing through the screen door and leaving me
in a room filled with music that ran through my head like a brush
combing out the tangles from driving with my sunroof down.

I was surrounded by people with purple hair and overflowing hearts
who floated around the room singing and talking and dancing
while I wondered how I should fill the shoes of my new title
and what kind of shoes I should even be filling.

out of the corner of my eye, I saw high tops march back ;
he didn’t seem to float but parade, his ponytail not quite matching his muscle shirt arms.
He waltzed right up to moccasins and kissed him proper on the mouth
hands holding his jaw, eyes closed, and balanced on his toes.

Satisfied, he stormed back out through the screen
pulling a pack of blacks and a white lighter from his back pocket
(he would soon tell me he didn’t believe in luck,
even though it was in his pocket when he was arrested over a houseplant).

Moccasins just smiled, eyes rolling up into his brown hair
and with his hands out palms ceilingward in a silent offer, he locked his eyes on mine
Before I had a chance to overanalyze,
he decided for me.

Maintaing eye contact, we danced to the 22 year old boys screaming through the boom box
while I tried to integrate myself into the scene,
tried to float so effortlessly too,
like the cigarette smoke oozing in from the patio

he pulled me into a hug that resented gravity
effortlessly lifting all six feet of me off the ground,
pressing my cheek against the cutoff edge of his tie dye tank top,
my blonde hair tugging between his chest and mine

So with fuzzy lemonade on my lips
and bass players hands on my hips
I figured out I didn't need shoes
if i never touched the ground.

The pain never really goes away, does it?
I sighed in realization that I accepted a part of me would always be dark, and broken; while the other part of me still wondered why things turned out this way.

Because when you look back at the memories, you remember the good times. Smiling, happy, free. Or so you thought. But just like you and everyone else around you there was a sickness inside of her.
An eternal sadness.. something that can’t be fixed overnight. Or by one more hit. But she didn’t know that either.

It’s not how she wanted to end up, alone and scared; desperate for a needle to subside the pain. But it was what she knew, and she had no one else to rely on in that moment.

I think about that morning over and over, I overanalyze and try to remember a detail I missed, something I could do to go back and fix this.

But the damage was done.  And you can spend days, months, years trying to change the memory and the destiny that landed at your footsteps

But your fate is sealed, and you are different now.

Forever changed, by grief; a tragedy you hadn’t written into your story. It wasn’t a mere bump in the plot, it was a **** catastrophe.  But  now it’s yours to carry, and it’s yours to overcome.

And I’ve been trying.

... compare war stories
and overanalyze the depth of your scars...

Do not fall in love with a girl who reads
Because she’ll probably overanalyze everything
Because she’ll never understand
That people aren’t paperbacks
She’ll search for plot in your veins
And make metaphors of your broken heart
Do not fall in love with a girl who reads
Because she’ll fold your corners
And crumple your pages
She’ll make notes in your margins
And she’ll probably bend your spine back
Just a little too far
Do not fall in love with a girl who reads
Because she’ll get too excited for the ******
And she’ll skip some words (or pages)
When she’s sleepy she’ll skim
And lose her place
Do not fall in love with a girl who reads
Because she’ll fall in love with
Last chapters and final words
Do not fall in love with a girl who reads
Because the ending will always be her favorite part.

It doesn’t make much sense that I love you.  I’m so wrong for you, and you so right for me.  I guess it does make sense.  But you don’t love me so don’t feel bad.  It’s okay, I understand.  I’m not a high class, well-educated girl.  I feel like you need someone more like my sister, not hot-mess me.  I never match, I’m always late, my hair is always frizzy, I can’t dress myself nice, I love you.  I ******* love you.  Why can’t it be that simple?  Why can’t it just be

I love you
I love you too
I love you more
I love you

I love you.  So completely.  So needy.  Truer than blue.  You’re just

So.

Blue.

And I love you.

Your eyes.  Your smile.  Your laugh.  The way you talk with your hands.  And slur Italian so ****. Your arms. Your muscles. Your skin. Your sweat. Your spit.  Your feet. Your chest. Your strut, hips swaying. Your hips, those hip bones.  My mouth is watering. I want you.

I love your anger.  I love your jealousy.  I love your stubbornness.  I love your cockiness.  Your ****, too.

I love your hangovers.  I love your attitude problem, the way you talk down to me and ruffle my hair.  And tease me and talk to me and you don’t love me.

And it breaks me so violently, snaps every single one of my ribs, one at a time.

Crack. Crack. Crrrrrackkk-kah.

It hurts me.  It will **** me.  But it’s so true.  Because you are so completely and fully

Blue.

You consume me, floodwaters breaking the gates in my mind, leaking into every cavern, swimming debris of you slicing my brain, shallow cuts bleeding into the blue.

You move me, an ocean untamed, your waves thrash against my sanity, turn switches all the way ON.

But you go through me, you don’t see me.  You are this endless, perfect, vibrant, enormousity of sky and I am a bird, mesmerized by your beauty.  

I’m not Old enough
Smart enough
Wise enough
**** enough
Charming enough
Graceful enough
Clever enough
Fast enough
Strong enough
Tall enough
Skinny enough
Crazy enough
Impressive enough
Bodacious enough
Perfect enough

To ever win you.

How is it possible for one person to make you feel so absolutely wonderful and absolutely awful at the same time?  Even now I feel self-conscious writing these words, as if you are somehow perched behind me silently dotting i’s and crossing t’s.  I wish I could be prettier about this.

For you.

I ******* love you.

And I can’t say a word.  I’m afraid to inconvenience you.  I don’t want to make you feel anything but bliss. Part of me wishes you could just feed off my rich, sweet, sticky love for you.  And you could live forever.  But part of me knows you don’t want to sip from my overflowing cup.

And
You
Come
First

So I’ve sewn my mouth shut and fed you the key.  I only hope you’ll reject it, throw up stinky bile all over me.  It’s the only love from you I even deserve.

I love the way you touched my thigh.  Your fingers just barely grazed it, as if sitting next to me was so natural you forgot I wasn’t a continuation of you.  I only wish your lips had followed.

Sometimes I imagine myself getting drowned deranged drunk and spilling my thoughts all over you, a slimy shower of emotion you would rub all over that ******* chest and your heart would pound so loudly veins would rip.  But then I snap back into reality when I bump into a pole.

You smell like Italy, summer, on the beach, with an ice cold fruity drink in my hand.  White white teeth, smiling around an orange wedge.

Whenever we talk I secretly reread our conversations and overanalyze and morph and mold them into the perfect love.  You and me.  I think you are pounding at the door ten flights down screaming my name.  But it’s just all the stupid drunk druggy college kids.

Am I a stupid drunk druggy college kid

To you?

I remember when you hit me in the foot with a door and I yelped “ow” and crouched to the ground. And you crouched down and said, “Are you okay?”  But you looked right into me, into my muddy eyes, and you were

Soooooooooooo thisthisthisthisthisthis close to me.

And I got angry.  And said, “Yeah, I’m fine, ****, calm down.”  Why did I do that?

I told you I have a bad memory.  I don’t.

Have you ever lied to me?

I’ve been writing so much all I can smell is the tangy bitter smell of ink.  And it’s sad that that’s the only sensation I’ll ever know when it comes to you.  

Unless you want ***.  And you might.  I could give myself too, let you use this mint-condition waterbag shell.  You could use me ‘till I wear down to bone and my organs look like rotten vegetables.  But it would **** me faster.

I will be your *******.  You can cheat on me and hate me.  And chew my nails.  Eat my skin.  You already set me on fire.  I’m just gonna burn out, anyway.

I want to look in the dictionary and write down every single word that belongs to you.

I want to write you suicide notes.

Every time I eat an apple, I think of the time you let me take a bite of your forbidden fruit.  And you bit right on top of my saliva and teeth marks.  Like nothing.

Because you are everything.  And I am everything else, nothing.

Soulmates.  So you say.  Why do you tease me?  You hang yourself right above me, a shiny, round, juicy, tender, tempting, sweet nectarine without a single bruise, just out of my reach.

I howl my rage at the moon every night, for tattooing your contagious inferno across my throbbing chest.

You make me cry.  Did you know that?  I cry into my pillow so it stifles my whimpers.  I sound like a choking, sputtering, snot-filled dog.  And I can never swim to the surface of the loneliness that is drowning me.

Sometimes, I just wanna ******* punch you.  And knock all your teeth out.  Stab you up the nose so the whole **** thing falls off in a gurgling, bubbling, ****** mess.  Because

Well I don’t know

You make me mad

But that made me think of you dying and the jolt that just went through my body was so searing I pray you’re immortal.

And I never pray.

10.19.11
I'm done writing love poems.
I'm sick of emotions overpowering reason.
I had it all under control.
Hello. Hook up.
**** up.
Then leave without looking back.
Without feeling even the slightest bit bad.
Why can't I leave you?
Why don't I want to?
These questions haunt me.
But I try not to overanalyze
because that is how I break down.
Happiness is relative
and depression is necessary.
Because without sadness,
There is nothing to appreciate.
And I appreciate this.

set fire, burn, smoke
my tiny brain broccolis
overanalyze

My thoughts scream against the cage
Of my brain
Pounding to be set free
As I go blue in the face from holding
My breath.

I'll overthink and overanalyze
In a vain attempt to save myself
But you are impenetrable to
My musings and I cannot see
Too far foward from this moment in time.

So as my lips purse and crack and bleed
I'll smile for you every time
And hope perhaps, if my reading is right,
Youll make your smile, mine.

I can only identify Autumn as entirely bittersweet
I cringe at the sting of it as I breathe it through my teeth.
Isn’t it ironic how it’s viewed as beautiful in most eyes?
The season when everything transforms and withers away and dies.
The leaves changing colors, the forests in flames
And the vague sense of comfort in the shortening of days.
It’s underneath the ocean of stars I overanalyze my place
And I realize I’m just one out of the entire human race.
There’s something about Autumn, when everything dies,
That nags at me, insisting that I acknowlege I’m alive
And that no one can take that life away from me but me
I am not like the forests and the leaves and the trees
And I do not need to engulf myself in the colors of the flames
And I will not wither into nothing in Mother Nature’s name.
It is not neccesary for me to die once a year
Or hibernate all winter just to dismiss all my fears.
So why is it when I breathe Autumn into my bones
I become hyper aware that I’ve constructed people into homes
That have long sense been forclosed on, windows boarded up
And I’m the last to understand that the doors are locked and shut.
"That habit causes chronic homesickness," the doctor explains,
"I have no cure to give you, I just have something for the pain."
It’s in a self-medicated stupor I re-evaluate and say,
"I’m the only one to blame for why I ended up this way."
And in my cloudy mind state I think of what I’m fighting for
It’s been years of battles, mostly won, but I fear I’ll lose the war,
For overnight Winter will creep up to my window and make its way inside
And the tired worn out troops I have left will be taken by surprise.
My mental health will grow sleepy but I’ll push it to stay awake
And I’ll cling to that last dying ounce of comfort Autumn gave.

The world is sometimes dark and not all trees survive.  
I'm not saying this because you don't know this.
I'm saying it because, sometimes, I need reminding that it's not all good.
My tree of happiness is not struggling to grow,
Leaves of fake laughter making it look pretty.
You see, I have a tendency to overanalyze, overdramatize, over-generalize, looking for the good in everyone,
Wishing on stars that all the saplings will live and grow strong.
I guess I should be careful what I wish for.
I have a hard time coming to grips with the reality that life is not
Full of good people and good intentions and good reasons.
I put myself in everyone else's shoes, seeing justifications through
Their eyes, blind and full of dust though they might be.
Because even when elm and oak trees get sick and die, I plant new seeds
And even when I have to squeeze my hips too tightly into  
A child's swing set, I think I can still touch the sky
And even when I see lives cut short by guns, by drugs, by *****, abuse, suicide, gangs, cancer, hopelessness,
I don't really see the evil or the sorrow,
Only what could have been.
Only the Elysian Fields of immortal hopes and goals that now have a chance in somebody else's soul.
And even when my dreams are miscarried through open veins like exposed roots,
I feel joy.
Even when razors can't cut deep enough to remove my immediate tendrils and sprouts of pain,
Even when rivers of red on my legs don't rinse away my earthy, dark confusion,
I am happy. Deep inside,
I hope against hope that nothing will truly destroy my optimism.
Of course, as soon as I get out in the real, concrete, day-to-day, 9-to-5 (actually 8:30-to-3am) world,
I'm going to be crushed.
I'm going to find that seed of darkness and sorrow and pain that starts growing inside everyone.
From the time of our first skinned knee and broken promise, first heartbreak and the first time our dreams didn't come true,
The seed starts to grow.
I know I'll find mine eventually,
I think it's been mulched under  5 feet, 6 inches of forced smiles
And Sundays under that maple tree I could
Never quite climb.
The world is dark sometimes,
And not all trees survive.

i pour myself another flask
tilt my head to the heavens and choke it down
as if to say 'that one's for you mom'
the gulps of jack honey that kiss my stomach
become a bitter reminder of the things that i relinquish in sobriety
they ask me about my coping skills and lately
i nit pick, mock, and overanalyze
see, i am much more bitter than the poison i swallow
yet it will never occur to anyone that i have a void in my heart the size of kansas
i take another swig, feel the whiskey warm my cheek, and
close my eyes to imagine my mother's hands cupping my face
as if to subtlety remind me that i'll be alright
but that never corresponds to the way that i've felt since that night
i stand in front of the mirror bearing a shocking resemblance of her
my eyes tilt down a little and my lips are thin, just as hers were

I sit in the waiting room until I hear my name
“Jennifer!?”
I stand and follow the nurse into the tiny room
As I sit she asks,
“Last name and date of birth”
She takes my blood pressure and temperature
“Do you feel safe at home?”
I answer yes for I live on my own.
I feel safest by myself.
“Any thoughts of suicide or self harm?”
A pause
“No” I quietly mutter outloud
And on she goes
Little does she know what’s going on inside my head
I can just imagine the look on her face if I had spilled out everything
“Well you see, I have extreme anxiety, I overanalyze every situation I’m in, I get panic attacks, I think about cutting at least twice a day, I contemplate suicide on the worst days and am depressed beyond belief
But you’d never be able to tell just by looking at me.
Even she wouldn’t know what to do.
No one would know what to do
Not even I
For I argue with myself every night
Back and forth
Back and forth
I don’t think I have the courage too
Every time I get close I just can’t.
Deep down I know the people who care about me would be devastated
Maybe one day it’ll all go away
And my mind will be clear
Maybe... just maybe

It's not something so easy to get,
Waiting for a reply,
Not wanting to have your name the last two times,
So you lie,
And send  another,
Underanalyzing to overanalyze
But you're pressuring too much,
So grab a crutch,
And ask a someone close,
Theyll ask you,
Are you in the gittyness or the get over it my friend?

You look at 'em funny,
And it's not because you don't have no money,
Because you've never had money to change your mind,
It's not the gain grin or drop of a smile,
Or a laugh that sounds different,
Like moving in a different apartment,
That's in the same building,
Are you in the gittyness, or the get over it?

There's no answer,
No answer I know anyhow,
Just depends on which side of the road you think you're standing on

It's 1:00 am on Friday night after we've hung out for the second time this week
Not for the first time, I open my phone to a 150 word text explaining that my words chaffed you the wrong way and you were not pleased with me
The problem is that this time I was not feeling love for myself
Today I felt ****** and then you made me feel like a ****** person
Two different things
I feel ****** because lately my life has been on pause and I've merely been existing instead of living
I feel ****** because I no longer find the joy in simple things
I feel ****** because I'm both alone and lonely and I feel shut out by the world
It's 1:05 am on Friday night after we've hung out for the second time this week
and I've just finished reading your text for the fifth time while contemplating a response and that's when I started to feel something
I feel like a ****** person because I forgot that you have the tendency to overthink and overanalyze every word ever said to you while I have the tendency to underthink and under-analyze my thoughts
I feel like a ****** person because, at my lowest point, I opened 150-word text highlighting all the flaws in my personality
I'm happy and sad about your way of expressing yourself
Happy because of the level of comfort in our relationship that you feel the need to give me a performance review.
Sad because as I read this and know you expect change
Sad because I sit here knowing I failed you
Sad because I feel ****** 200 days out of the year and on those days, the extra effort just eludes me
Sad because I don't know if our friendship can survive on such a forced diet
And when it withers, I'll know it was me and I'm sorry for the inevitable.

AN: There are no errors. Every word, every space, everything is done on purpose.

Call it creepy.
Call it weird.
Call it masochistic.
I don’t care.
You don’t know,
you can’t fathom
how it feels
to see your blood well up
fill the tiny little channels
in your skin.
Watch your skin turn red,
then fade to pink,
then finally to white.
You don’t know
how it feels
to see your blood reach up
toward the stars,
dying white to red
in a matter of seconds.
You don’t know
what it’s like
to have your whole life
hang in the balance of
a pushed up sleeve.
To harbor secrets
so much darker
than the darkest of guesses.
You can’t know
the feeling of a defaced cross
forever imprinted in your skin
when you press you arm against
something flat.
You can’t understand
the easiness of a trance.
The lack of thought,
except maybe
“look how pretty”
or perhaps
“Bleed, bleed, bleed!”

You think you know
the pressure of-
not the blade,
because that’s not all
I use. More-
sharp objects,
but you don’t.
You think it’s all emotional,
bring mental pain to
physical pain.
or it’s a pathetic plea for
attention.
or it makes me feel better.
or I want to fit in.
or .
or.
or.
All this psychological
devaluation.
It’s all
wrong.
Chemical imbalance?
I guess we’ll never know.
I’m sure as hell
not getting
tested.
So you can throw me away
and lock up the key-
or is it the other way around?

No, you’re out of
your mind.
You want to overanalyze
me,
over complicate
me.
It’s simple.
I want to see myself
bleed.
I want to see what’s supposed
to be on the inside
on the outside.
Why does there have to be more?
Why do you have to blame my depression?
or Mommy?
or Daddy?
Because that’s the most widely accepted
excuse?
Rather than the truth?
Why would you rather believe
lies?
It shouldn’t be so hard
to find a name for this.
A name that doesn’t also apply
to biological disorders.
That’s not what this is.
This is something
solely
in my brain.
Neither
nature
nor nurture
but
a neurosis
that simply
is.
I have a
neutral
relationship with my
‘disorder’.
I don’t try to do away with it,
and it doesn’t try to
**** me.
But you don’t believe that.
It’s not healthy.
It’s bad.
You spout off meaningless
facts**statistcs
about suicides
in my age group.
How some
-emotional!-
cutters
accidently go too far
resulting in their
death.
SHUTUP!
I know what
you’re saying.
I understand
the statistics.
I know why
you’re concerned.
I get it.
But I’m ok.
Honestly, I am.
It may not seem like it,
I know,
but I swear it’s true.
I’m ok with who I am.
I have no shame.
Really.
You don’t know
how this is.
so just leave me
alone
and help someone
who really needs it.

Because I.
Do.
Not.

I seem to have this problem
Where I think too hard or not at all
I overanalyze overthink over complicate
But moments later zone out at the wall
A read into what should be left alone
And lose focus on conversations that should be heard
I make a big deal out of nothing
Later I miss your every word
I space responsibilities and events
But can't forget how self conscious I feel
I think too hard about a lot of things
Especially emotional wounds I wish could heal
Whoever stole the in between
I could really use it back
Those moments of deep thought
Filled the void leaving me not to lack
An excitement for life, free spirit, or light heart
Keeping me steady and sure
And return my focus on what matters most
To be able to hear through all the chatter

You've got me choking on smiles
Laughing at crooked brain waves
Sometimes I don't know what to say
But you've started to settle in
Like sand in the ocean
Once you past a certain point you can only sink deeper from there
You've got me choking on laughter
Like I'm trying to swallow it and pretend it wasn't ever there
I like that I don't have to try so hard
And that you like me better when I don't
Don't overanalyze it too much
I do it just enough for the both of us
But you're starting to take it away and I'm smirking just thinking about saying your name
Most of the time I don't even know what I'm saying
But I like the fact that I'm into the idea of staying

i wonder why i do this to myself,
make it seem like it could be.
i find myself falling for every man i see.
what makes me think you'd want me,
the way that i want you.
i always overanalyze every little thing you do.
maybe one day it will happen,
my desire will be retuned.
until that day however,
i'll continue to feel burned.

wish someone would overanalyze
the things i do and feel
(just once)
the way i do with everyone else

the body is a vessel
of tissue and blood and bone
i want to leave it alone but
i know myself

the mind is a muscle
of matter and questions and tactics
i want to forget it but
i know myself

the actions we take now
formats what we have the potential
of becoming
and you are too dear to me darling
to simply brush under the rug

too special to overanalyze
i don't need to magnify when it comes to you either
i've learned a lot this year
i'm learning everyday

learn with me.

to me spirituality is the best interest,
to me freedom is *******
to me freedom of expression is the hole in a dream
for wot u live for
eternity ,
is the essence of our contraption
that is not to overanalyze, or obstruct the notion but,
to me its to enjoy the buzz,
the chaos and all the ****** in the world today,
kids with holes in their bodies, like for what,
for me i jus sit back, like for what,
relax and dose ya mind into these aether waves,
my friends are cool,
they think im cool too,
i guess i am cool,
but to me my friends are fools,
and i am a fool cuz i listen to music like tool,
to me reality includes me,
i am connected to this density, 3D
dimensional awareness, master of frequency
my rhymes make stars vibrate from the skies,
my rythm moves through,
solid matter,  drink bleach
reconstruct a new eye view,
i always lie to myself for what i, for what i,
dont mentally grasp why,
never asked for a mind,
to comprehend gods and time and desire,
morality and math and planting the seeds of our demise,
no lies,
from me,
u only get uncensored reality.

Trust me.
I'm no longer dying.
I'm fine because,
I'm no longer trying.
I mean I am.
Trying to be better, I mean.
I'm improving even if,
Sometimes I careen,
Towards the edge and,
I fill you with fright.
Sometimes I'm dramatic,
But really I'm alright.
Except when I'm not.
When I pick the scab open,
Then I really just need,
Something to hope in.
Scratch that, I'm all talk.
I'm just looking for attention,
I'm sorry I'm so childish.
I really shouldn't mention,
Things like that,
Moments that hurt.
It was selfish of me,
To put you on alert.
I'm fine.
Except when I'm not.
When I overanalyze,
And I drown in thought.
I don't need you to coddle me.
That's not your responsibility.
But I wouldn't mind it.
I'm a little lacking in stability.
Just forget it actually.
I don't mean to keep up this game,
Of cat and mouse, it's silly.
Frankly it fills me with shame.
I don't want to be needy,
I don't want to have needs.
I don't want to be anymore,
Don't indulge me, it only leads,
To me telling you things.
Things that seem much worse,
Than I mean them to.
Confessions that I rehearse.
Thoughts that repeat in my head.
Try to stop them, don't know how.
But they're just thoughts.
So I'll stop scaring you now.
I swear I'm okay.
Except when I'm not.
When the world is crumbling,
Every inch of me is pulled taut.
When it never stops raining,
I'm drenched to my soul.
I shake violently and can't stop,
Nothing can fill this endless hole.
I've given up on hoping,
And I can't describe how I feel,
I know that I'm in agony but,
I don't even know if the pain is real.
.
.
.
Hey I'm sorry.
Sorry for all of it.
In fact I never stop,
Being sorry for sins I commit,
For getting lost and falling short.
Point is, what I'm trying to say,
Is that I'm better now.
But trying is the part giving it away.
Because I can't seem to say,
I'm doing just fine,
Because I can never be sure,
Because I walk a fine line.
In the end I can't tell you,
What's up and what's down.
If a girl keeps crying suicide,
She looses the trust of her town.

my hair is an array is an array of fluorescent and inorganic colors,
i listen to indie rock like its my religion,
my best friend is my mother,
i go to bed early and still drag my feet in the morning,
my most prized possession is a sea shell i found,
i resort to self-deprecation in awkward situations,
my favorite t-shirts have sarcastic jokes or history references on them,
i cry when i am angry, sad, or happy,
my diet consists of only coffee ice cream and saltine crackers,
i cannot help but to care what people think of me,
my worst fear is wasting my time,
i am only seen wearing the same pair of old skate shoes even though
i don't know how to skateboard
my babysitting paychecks are spent on looseleaf tea,
i don't read as much as i should,
my worst habit is procrastinating,
sometimes i think i'm addicted to ibuprofen,
and i overanalyze everything i do to the point of hysteria

but you
you you you you you you you

you pretend to look past all this

i can still feel your judgement,
anticipate your rejection,
and foresee myself waking up tomorrow more miserable than today

yet somehow

your words say something else
they speak of my "overwhelming beauty"
they praise my "individuality and intellect"
your lips whisper tales about my "sensuality and passion"
they conjure up compliments that flood my cheeks with color

i melt, for a second

then i convince myself that you must be lying
for truths cannot contradict

overanalyze every single word you hear
was this a sign that things were going wrong?
no, no,
you were the one who cared too hard,
not them.

stay up every single night on your phone,
either attempting to gather the courage
to turn these demons,
these constant reminders of your loneliness
into nothing more than a bad dream,
or praying just for one second
that you could feel the warmth
of equally returned love

talk down on yourself whenever possible
my life is **** because i deserve it,
right?
you must’ve done something really bad
its nearly impossible for you to cry now

become a secondary character in your own motion picture
but most importantly,
drown every single one of your feelings
in old, stolen ***
learn to love the taste of it dripping down your throat
find comfort in the warmth coming from your stomach
you’re drinking bottled love now.