I can't write poems
because they won't give me a pen

because they're afraid that I'll **** myself with it.

But what they don't know
is that I'm not the perfect Venn diagram
between suicidalness
and patience,

that I'm not creative enough
or desperate enough

to use a ballpoint
or a fountain
or a quill

to hang myself
or poison myself
or slit my wrists.

And because they won't give me a pen,
I can't write poems
to
    save
            my
                  own
                         life.

Over 19,200 miles each year,
And what do I get?
Siblings who adore but don't know me,
Parents who use me as a tug-of-war rope,
Grandparents who forget I exist and instead love those younger than me,
Friends I've known forever who think I'm invisible,
Ex's who leave me for someone else who doesn't leave the state,
Depression from friends and family,
Suicidalness from peer pressure and abuse and manipulation,
And a name that scares everyone because of the things I've gone through.