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Emily May 2014
I'm the epitome of unattractive
The definition of ugly
I have a round stomach
My legs touch
My **** sag
My hair is thin and frail
My teeth aren't pearly white
I'm pale and my eyes are shallow
Brown with no depth or color
*** is an impossible task
When there is so much fat
Separating my body from the other
*** is an impossible task
When I'm only thinking about my body
Rather than feeling the passion and heat
*** is an impossible task
When I won't allow anybody to see me
A terribly ugly body resides
Underneath the loose jeans
And oversized shirts
I'm the epitome of unattractive
I'm more than just ugly
I'm more than just fat
I'm morbidly obese
I'm disgustingly put together
Nobody could want me
There is no question
Only an answer
The answer is no
No, I am not wanted
No, I am not desired
No, I am not beautiful
No, I will never be ****
I'm the epitome of unattractive
© Emily 2014
baselessfears Mar 2014
i am unattractive, and i know this.
it's because i can't make myself smile.
it doesn't feel right.
i am unattractive, and i know this.
it's because i can't laugh like i used to.
what is there to laugh at?
i am unattractive, and i know this.
it's because i haven't forgiven him.
i wear the hurt on my face, and i know this.
it's because there isn't room inside for the hatred.
i am unattractive, and i know this.
it's because sometimes i just can't believe that i'm worth it.
Oct 2013
sit there alone
in the corner
daydreaming

feeling lonely
in the crowded

nobody cares
nobody interested

while other girls

sit there alone
do nothing
but everybody came to her

sometimes
i laugh at myself
why am i so
unattractive?
sorry this is literally a potato's heart
Matt Jul 2015
Maybe I thought
It would have been fun
To be a woman

I thought
About having *******
And a ******

Playing with ******
And vibrators
Feeling a big *****

Spurt hot thick loads
Of *** into my womb

But I'm just
An unattractive guy
"stop trying to make the words
sound pretty
and just say it."
"i'm not-"
"yes
you are."
you
were correct.
i was
looking for
the most
beautiful
words
to say
such an
ugly
thing.
and now that i
reflect on that
i am
proud
of my attempts
to decorate
the words.
it takes great
skill
to do such
tasks
and you
should
not
rush
the
beautifying
of
such
unattractive
things.
Kiui Sep 2018
When will I realize that I wasn't the main character of a movie
That I can never be a part of people's memories

When will I realize I'm not a supporting character of a tv series
That I'm only important when people have queries

When will I realize I'm not a scenery nor a sound effect

When will I realize that I'm only a credit scene
The unattractive, full of words, boring, credit scene
The scene people will never pay any attention to
The scene where words are so small, you don't hear me crying
The scene where people say, "thank you for making this show"
But never really remember the names

When will I learn to love myself as a credit
When will I learn to accept that a credit is just as important
Even though I'm boring, unattractive and unwanted
Showman Aug 2013
First there is the prep.
The roommate.
Wearing salmon colored pants.  
He has Shaggy from ****** Doo
On his left thigh.
The alcoholic.
She has a drinking problem.
She is in denial of her drinking problem.
She hangs out with the loners.
The loners.
Unkempt, unattractive and fat in all the wrong places.
The blond looks like Tom Petty.
The one with dark hair, glasses and braces
They live next door.
Living together but segregated. 
Wild cards.
All of us.

©Gambit '13
Unwanted Dec 2014
Please wake up
I'm tired of you hiding your face
drowning in make up
drawing on a smile
cute dont you think?
live your life pretending your  ugly
but you wont believe
perfection is unattractive
especially to guys like me
you live your life pretending
but where are the flawless things
a crooked tooth
makes you seem so amazing to me
it makes you different
special
the only one for me
so what if your an a cup
to tell you the truth not every guy wants the same thing
dont put us in a box
unlock the lock
dont throw away that key
dont give up on us
freaking ask us what you think
before you start starving yourself
thinking this is what we want
what we need
you dont need a big *** to be attrative
but hey thats just me
because i dont want perfection
I want the imperfect things
JUST LISTEN TO ME! HOW MANY TIMES DO WE HAVE TO TELL YOU . WE DONT WANT PERFECTION.... we just want you
To lie or not to lie - that is the question:
Whether 'tis better to keep the truth
Shutting the light in the dark,
Or to bring upon pain or pleasure
Why, by bringing truth, gain unwanted reaction. To lie, deceit -
No more - and by secret to say what we want to say
The will of truth and lie
That flows from lips - 'tis an infection
One craved by all. To lie, deceit -
Deceit, perhaps too much. Ay, there's the problem.
For in that deceit of truth what pathologic lieing may come.
When we have gained such filthy pleasure from this lie,
Must force us thought. That's the reality
That makes chaos of such pleasure.
For who really wants to hear or speak an ugly truth,
The lover's love gone, the child's art trash,
The woman's ugly face, the man's unattractive body,
The co-worker's stench, and the embarrassing blemish
That gives opportunity for lie,
When they themselves would appreciate
Why give them heart ache? Who would give them truth,
To give them hurt,
But the chance they would enjoy the truth,
The unknown glee from fate's unlucky victims
For the victim's mind confuses the liar
And makes the liar want to speak truth
And to see that reaction instead.
Thus turning pathologic lieing into suthe saying,
And thus the addicting infection
Is cured with the disease of truth,
And infection seems less appealing
With this regard the lies soon stop
And lose what effect they once had.
This was an old high school assignment I found today. We worked on Hamlet and had to turn his soliloquy into one of our own, so I made one about lieing!
samasati Nov 2012
I believe in smiling at strangers. I believe in saying hello. I believe in shyness. I believe in fear of rejection. I believe in the need of affection. I believe in the need of reminders. I believe in candles, especially those that smell of vanilla or christmas. I believe in wearing small crystals around my neck. I believe in energetic vibrations. I believe in colours - I think each person has their own colour. I believe every feeling is valid. I believe in chapstick and I believe in mascara that doesn’t clump. I believe in nail polish - every colour of nail polish. I believe that the only reason we lie is because we fear something. I believe in poetry. I believe in bluntness. I believe in the intention behind words, but I don’t necessarily believe in words. I believe in travel. I believe in travelling solo. In fact, I believe in travelling so much that it is pretty much all I want to do. I believe in music. Boy, do I believe in music. I believe any kind of musical composition can change a person. I believe music can cure depression. I also believe music can feed depression. I believe a melody can say more than lyrics and I believe that lyrics can be what someone couldn’t put together themselves to explain exactly how they are feeling. I believe anyone can create a song, even though they believe they cannot. I believe a single note can sound like the most beautiful sound in the world. I believe if someone records a song when they’re in an ugly mood, the ugliness emits to its listeners and can drain them. I believe in art. Of course I do. I believe in acrylic paint. I believe in oil paint and watercolours, but not as much as I believe in acrylic. I believe in fingerprinting. I even believe in painting with your toes. And I believe in dancing; even if it looks weird. I believe in flailing your arms even, as long as it feels good and right. I believe in dancing ‘til you sweat, though I don’t like that icky feeling too much. I believe that a babe can be a very ugly person and a physically unattractive person can be a very beautiful person. I believe that people who smile are beautiful. I believe that people who frown are beautiful too, just in a different way. I believe that there are sincere smiles and there are manipulative smiles. I believe that some people just know how to use their eyes well. I believe in eye contact. I believe in engaging. I believe in listening and dropping everything else that is going on in your mind just to listen to what a person is trying to share with you. I believe in sharing - sharing cookies and sharing love. I believe in the frosty cold. I believe that it doesn’t have to feel as cold as it really is. I believe that people complain a lot. I believe that people often have too much pride to be happy. I believe that we should embrace our discomforts and shames, that we should welcome them wholeheartedly so that we can be happy. I believe in honesty. I believe in empathy. I believe in tea. I believe in jelly donuts but only on certain occasions. I believe in quirky bow ties. I believe in knit toques and mittens and scarves. I believe in dresses. I believe in flirting. I believe in coffee in the morning. I believe in big comfy beds. I believe in walking around your empty house in your underwear or birthday suit, singing loudly. I believe in singing in the shower. I believe in singing on the street. I believe in stage fright. I believe in meditation, though I don’t really strictly set times to do it anymore. I believe mundane activities can be done in a meditative state of mind. I believe in clarity. I believe in not judging people because everyone is human. I believe every human has something very interesting about them. I believe in boring people too. I believe in christmas music - not the radio kind, the choral kind. I believe in cheap sweet wine. I believe in Billy Joel and I believe in The Beatles. I believe in Regina and Sufjan too. I believe that the ukulele is a very overrated instrument. I believe in having healthy hair. I believe in moisturizer. I believe in getting to pick a coloured toothbrush at the dentist. I believe in thick wool socks. I believe in baggy sweaters. I believe in yoga gear but I do not believe in sweatpants. I believe that yoga is one of the healthiest things for a person - ever. I believe in buying a friend drinks or dinner once in awhile. I believe in collecting shoes and scarves and rings. I believe in chords but I don’t really believe in jeans. I believe in hot chocolate with whip cream but not with marshmallows. I believe in dorky Christmas sweaters. I believe in baking cookies instead of cake. I believe in eating disorders - I do not support them, but I do believe they are much more severe and various than most people think and I believe there should be better/proper help for those who suffer instead of the usual cruel inpatient/outpatient care. I believe in trichotillomania and I believe in dermatillomania and the severity and impact it can have on its sufferers. I believe in gardens. I believe in every single flower. I believe that everyone is always doing their best. I believe that most people love to struggle. I believe in hope. I believe in having faith in yourself. I believe in iPod playlists. I believe in gym memberships in the winter, not the summer unless it’s to swim. I believe in matching underwear every day. I believe in Value Village. I believe in singing in bus shelters when you’re waiting for the bus. I believe in dressing up according to holidays. I believe in Grey’s Anatomy and I believe in Community. I believe in skirts and dresses that twirl like the ‘ol days. I believe in longboards more than skateboards. I believe in plaid like most young people do. I believe in bows in my hair, but not as much as I used to. I believe in foot massages and hand massages. I believe in reflexology and reiki and essential oils and chakras and crystals and holistic nutrition. I believe in anxiety; even crippling anxiety. I believe in awkward romances. I do not believe in flip flops. I do not believe in Beatles covers unless they are really insanely good; then my mind is blown. I believe in having long enough nails to scratch someone’s back appropriately. I also believe in biting nails. I do not believe in telephone calls unless I am extremely comfortable with the person. I believe in blogs. I believe in journals. I believe in naming special inanimate objects like journals, instruments, technology and furniture. I believe in the idea of cats more than I believe in cats. I believe in sharpies or thin pointed permanent markers. I believe in temporary tattoos. I believe in streaming movies online. I believe in royal gala apples. I believe in avocados. I believe in rice cakes. I believe in popcorn. I believe in airports but I hate the LA airport. I believe in openly talking about *** but I don’t believe in making it seem shameful and gross. I believe there should be no shame regarding sexuality. I believe in reading some great books more than once. I believe in laying on the couch under cozy blankets, watching a great suspenseful tv show or movie. I only believe in having a couple bites of cheesecake. I don’t really believe in lulu lemon. I don’t believe many people can pull off the colour yellow. I believe in buttons over zippers even though zippers are easier, they just look kind of dumb and cheap. I believe in the sun and the moon equally. I believe in closets over dressers. I believe in staring out the window for a good hour or so.
Cindra Carr Nov 2011
Finding love in an unattractive package
Feels as though love needs to resort to trickery
To satisfy the perverse need to be loved
But, also, to show that everyone needs love
Long losts to almost have
Each attraction star struck and devoted
If there is none
Then there never was and keep moving
Unattractive or not
Love finds a way

cc111711
liz Mar 2013
you are
annoying and unfaithful
greedy and habitual
poor baby
what must you lust after now
and sob rivers with no reasons
you lack directions
and standards
and thrive on attention
of unattractive actions
you are eleven
going on ten
and have yet to blossom
we give up on you
since i occupy the back burner
behind rats and redheads
Megan Feb 2014
if i swallowed a magnet
would i be more attractive?
but the problem is
many people feel unattractive
so what happens when the people
who are unattractive swallow magnets?
the ones that appreciate the most
and see the best in people
will be repelled.
If you fear they will find someone better,
to them, you will become insecure and unattractive.
If you think they will never find anyone better, your arrogance will push them away.
If you never hold them,
they’ll never know you love their touch.
If you hold them too much, they’ll be happy to get away.
If you hurt them,
they will hurt you back.
If you hit them,
they might like it
if
you do it the right way.
Poetria Apr 2016
Judgment comes in the form of a boomerang; It'll swing right back and hit you with a loud smack.

You need to stop reading the wrinkles lining your face; Those wrinkles won't ever go away.

The flawless are a cult. Their motto is 'perfection'. Where's the fun in that?

You're either braindead or broke if you cut as a joke; Buy yourself some real bracelets, they come pretty cheap.
Sort yourselves out, people.
Nikita Aug 2015
Sick of feeling ugly
Sick of feeling below everyone else
I just want to look desirable
I want to wear no makeup and be able to smile
I want to look in the mirror without expecting it to crack

I want to be loved
For who I am
The way I look

But if the sayings true
That I have to love myself before you do
Then I guess Ill always be an alone mess
laura Mar 2014
Feeling unattractive
I blame the mirror
Feeling my voice is cracking
I blame the radio
Feeling no one is clapping
I blame the show

Feeling the weakness
I blame your sweetness
Feeling like I'm falling
I blame boys
Feeling like lost in love
You're the one I blame

Feeling like a trash
I blame society
Feeling empty
I blame happy people
Feeling uncompleted
I blame lovers

Feeling like no one is right
Feeling like I'm unwelcomed
Feeling super suicidal
I don't blame the blade
I blame myself
Jackie Wilson Oct 2016
a calendar
lies in the corner of a table,
forgotten,
two weeks into the New Year,
its simple pencil sketch at the top
showing at an angle.
late at night
a noise can be heard from that corner,
the sound of protesting sobs,
and a little voice
can be picked out here and there,
"all the other calendars
had pretty scenes
of mountain lakes and forest glades.
now they are all gone.
someone has taken them
to hang on their wall.
and I am still lying here.
nobody wants me.
my big, clumsy letters
are clear and dark.
a child could read them.
and my large, awkward boxes
have plenty of writing space.
I am the best calendar around
and could help someone greatly
in their struggle
to remember their place in time,
if only someone would stay long enough
to see what I am
and not what I look."
mc Jun 2013
streetlights ignite
the darkness after nightfall
setting the shadows ablaze
and, all the while,
remain endlessly
unprecedented unattractive unappreciated and unnoticed
despite their best intentions
and unaltered loyalty to illuminate our nights

without them, nighttime wanderers
would be absorbed by the night
and not be seen til morning
they are the only guides left
when twilight swallows the adventurous whole

so this is a thank you
to the undervalued streetlights
Mysterious Aries Oct 2015
Two images of flowers suddenly appeared up the sky
One with beyond compare beauty
While the other could be the ugliest ever seen
People studied them, but they seem a mirage
They just appeared out of the blue
Can’t be touched, an unexplained phenomenon
Until it became part of the daily life scenery

One day, the public smells a lovely scent
The most pleasant fragrance they’ve ever inhaled
They’ve looked at the beautiful flower
They’ve adored its gorgeousness
Noticeably the pretty flower seems to grow more

The next day, humanity smells some disgusting odor
The most unpleasant stench they’ve ever breath in
They’ve looked at the ugly flower
They’ve hated and cursed it
Visibly the unattractive flower shrunk

The next morning, human race smells another lovely aroma
Much more amusing than before
They’ve glanced at the sky
And there’s only one flower left
The most beautiful one
So they've dance and sang praises
Not knowing, that’ll be the last beautiful scent
They’ll ever inhale during their entire lives

10/21/2015
Mysterious Aries
Kay P May 2014
When I’m sad I crave french fries

They taste like happiness is supposed to feel
like grease dripping from your lips as you sit back and enjoy yourself
like indulging a craving that everyone says will only make you fat and unattractive
and this
feels like a goodbye

French fries don’t ask you to talk about your feelings and
French fries don’t tell you ‘no’ when you reach for them
French fries only comfort and tell you that it’ll all be okay
because spending a few bucks on McDonalds is always better than taking a razor to your skin
the threat of gaining a few extra pounds is nothing when you think that I could be running toward a precipice with no hope of stopping
No desire to pause in my motion until I am airbourne
because Moriarty said that falling is just like flying
until you stop

French fries are always warm

They cool over time but by then they are making their way through a system made only to squeeze what nutrition can be found there
They don’t keep me up at night with cravings for more
because when I eat French Fries I’m only trying to sit here and live in this moment
because French Fries don’t tell me what I don’t want to hear and
French Fries don’t pull things like me like a string around a loose tooth and
French fries don’t slam the door

When I’m angry they taste like tears

I haven’t cried more than two tears since the day my heart up and left me
I’ve tried to tell everyone that being unable to cry doesn’t mean I can’t feel anything
except when it does
and maybe that just means that I am hollow and dry on the inside as well, maybe it means the soul I thought was old as my great grandmother’s is simply an empty space
But I don’t want to believe my being is half of something else
to be filled by someone who can leave any other day
I don’t want
to be desperate
but the grit of salt on my fingers feels a lot like missing you
so I lick it off
because they say that salt purifies and I haven’t felt clean since this time last year when you
got drunk and told me that you loved me

So I’m sorry if I can’t get to you through all the french fries
I’m sorry that I can’t reach far enough to grasp at straws and I’m
sorry that eating fast food is the only way I can find release and
I’m sorry that sometimes I think that maybe it’s for the better, you know?
because all this is just ridiculous and
we were supposed to get married and
I knew it was stupid to think so at the time because everyone says that high school can’t last forever and I’m
a senior

I’m sorry that I made you happy

because happiness is the only thing more devious than the male mind and
I told you that I would gladly let you move in if your parents disowned you and
I told you that I was thinking about you through spoken word poems I never got around to writing and
I told you to bring a blanket to that roof you watch the stars on to get away from your demons and
I told you that it didn’t matter to me if you relapsed
and
still you act like I’ve never said a word

but French Fries fill me from toe to crown and I
know now
that the taste of them fills me better than bitterness ever had and
that finding release in fattening strips of potato is better than
wishing I was dead every moment and

I’m sorry that I can’t do this anymore

So everytime I go to McDonalds and order one, two, three orders of large fries
know I always order one for Chelsea,
but I eat the other two for you
because to me they taste like Burger King
and an order of French Fries
May 1st, 2014
(Spoken)
Pretend Poetry Jan 2019
Appeared wrinkles.
Some hair strands become white.
Over time,the mother became a grandmother.
Vanity set aside,
She didn´t have to get dressed to wait to die.
Had so many many diseases, perhaps ,some not real.
In the terminal signs of life, the remedies, in high doses,
didn´t cure the worst pain: loneliness.
The grandchildren have grown up and no longer came already.
The children visited a little less, pretending it doesn´t fell your pain.
The love was gone.
There are no illusions, jus reality:
The old died of loneliness,
in the asylum,
there was no commotion.

-V.
G Rhydian Morgan Aug 2011
Ripples running away from me
disturbing the cool water around.
My splash is heard by the trees and the birds
But by none who can offer help.
At first I panic, thrash madly,
as a thrush flutters on the breeze.
More waves are caused by the actions
But still I flap and scream.

Not a soul can hear me;
the woods are a wilderness, deserted.
Everything hidden by the low dense cloud,
It stops my sight short and muffles my voice.
So I wait drifting with the current
no longer reaching for a hold,
Confident I’ll be found and saved
Dried out and sent home happy.

The minutes soon become hours though
and still there is no help.
I give up counting depressing time.
I don’t want to know how long.
My skin starts to wrinkle with wetness
like a dried fruit in a plastic bag;
My nails soften in the water
But still trap **** and other life.

My faith in human nature
starts to fade and recede.
I try calling out once more
A strange fear forcing the action
I now grab, frantic, at anything in reach
Losing what little strength's left
And the weight of the water in my clothes
And body is dragging me down.

Finally I realise what’s happening to me
is I am sinking, drowning - and fast.
I am dying and there is nothing
I can do myself to stop it.
Inevitable, unpreventable death that I
now accept as being my destiny,
I close my eyes and try to help
By thinking heavy thoughts.

Running over in my head all the reasons
why it may be better this way -
As death is certain this is academic
But strangely seems to help.
If one can find the good in Death
it’s not so unattractive.
I no longer worry, I am resigned
It is my choice to die.

So I just lie back and wait for
embrace even my forthcoming Death
And then I hear a sound prayed for weeks ago
But dreaded and hated as I am now
Footsteps coming towards me that I try to ignore
(and ignore their voices too)
And a hand reaches for me, grasps mine
They think I should be happy to be saved

But they cannot see I don’t want to be saved
from the Death I was so close to and wanted.
I welcomed it, I willed it, to
Come and release me from the pain
Now I am safe I must endure once more
the suffering, and accept Death again.
So here I am alive and well
Trapped in the prison of life.
Akira Chinen Sep 2018
I reluctantly went to sleep around 3:30 am/not because I was tired/because I am always tired/but there wasn’t really anything else to do/and I shouldn’t call it going to sleep/when it is napping a few hours at a time/as my body tosses and turns/and my eyes are constantly opening and closing throughout the night/before my chattering mind or ghost of a mind decides that sleeping isn’t an option/and now it is three minutes past seven a.m./and I am up and exhausted/but that is the chapter my life has been stuck on repeat for the last decade plus/but it’s ok because I fake brave and try to wear a kind smile/but every now and then someone tells me I always look angry/and I try to explain that this is the only face I have/but the only expression I can make is the sound of shy silence/so the story of how I use to always smile as a child goes unheard/and only I know always smiling for me ended one day in the sixth grade/when while walking home from school a girl asked why was I smiling all the time/in a voice that let me know always smiling wasn’t something that was ok/and speaking of my younger self he was a strange and slightly paranoid kid/I remember him thinking in kindergarten  at recess that he didn’t feel completely “boy’ish”/because he was unusually shorter than the other kids his age/and his little mind inside his tiny body/went to thinking of why this was/and he came up with the theory that if you were born a boy or a girl/was decided by if your heartbeat was pushing blood out or taking blood in/and that he must have been born in between the two
/so he wasn’t really a boy or a girl/but just a human with a wee-wee/around this same age/this little dickens of a child/also figured out that we never died/that we just grew so old that we would start to shrink back into our baby bodies again/and once we shrank far enough down/we would start to grow old all over/he also once believed that bad people and bad things only happened on tv and in books/because he often heard a song on the radio that said something like/“there are no good guys there are no bad guys”/and he edited out the no good guys part/and only paid attention to the no bad guys part/so he believed that there were no bad guys up until the one day/both the television and the radio/wouldn’t stop talking about one guy that was clearly real/and clearly bad/going around to random houses in the night/and killing the families inside/and he turned his eyes up towards the moon/because the moon had a magic and  mystery to him/and he thought to the moon/but “there are no bad guys?” and the moon just floated in the cold night air/and said nothing back/and he realized that songs don’t tell the truth/and he shrugged his little shoulders and buried the first part of his innocence/and he grew up thinking he would always be a kid/feeling every school year was an infinite loop being lived over and over again/and that he would never be an adult and get to do adult things/not really liking this idea until he was an adult/and then desperately wishing it had been true/because as an adult he began to accept that maybe he was a boy/and the whole heartbeat theory was just a strange thought/of a strange kid/but that thought was often replaced by a feeling of not being human/because he still didn’t feel he fit in/and he knew he sure as hell wasn’t going to grow into a man of manly manliness/because that just seemed an absurd thing to do/and he definitely didn’t want to ever be an adult in a three piece business suit/working a business job with briefcases and power ties/that looked more like nooses to him/and what a horrible waste of life it was/to chase after a big bank account overflowing with money/with hearts bankrupt of any kind of love/and that was how the strange little kid who grew up to an awkward young adult saw the world/and he didn’t like it/and he didn’t want to be here/and he was the essence of a good guy/he didn’t drink/he didn’t smoke/he was a little nerdy/no/really nerdy/and he read comics and drew pictures/and started to write poetry/and hadn’t kissed a girl yet/because he somehow missed the class on how to talk to girls throughout his entire childhood/and he fell in love for the first time at eighteen/and wrote his first love poem/and gave it to the girl/and they became good friends/but never girlfriend boyfriend good friends/and they never kissed/and it broke his heart/and life went on/and he moved to New York for a short while/and had his first glass of wine on Halloween/while walking through Manhattan/and he liked this new feeling/and he drank a little more and a little more/and he meet a French girl/that read him French poetry/in French one night/and he thought maybe this was love/but he was still young and naive/and they became good friends/and on his last night in New York/they kissed and it felt good/really good/and he was happy for a moment/but still naive/and when she asked him to come back to her place/he didn’t realize why she would ask him that/because his flight left early in the morning/and it seemed a silly thing to ask/so he ended up flying back home/not knowing he had almost lost his virginity to a beautiful French girl/that was a good kisser/a really good kisser/and life went on/and so did his drinking/and being naked from the waist down after a night of heavy drinking on his twenty-first birthday/he thought it was a good idea to hang that lower half out the car window while being driven down the 101/and he probably would have fell out/but luckily he was pulled back in/and lived to see many other birthdays to celebrate in excessive amounts of alcohol and awkwardness/and he eventually did lose his virginity/at surprise surprise a Halloween party/on the bathroom floor of his best friends condo sitting beach side in Ventura/and they even cuddled all night while sleeping on the couch/and they held hands the entire morning on the way to breakfast/and all through eating breakfast/and the whole drive to her house as their mutual friends dropped her off/and it might have turned into a loving beautiful relationship/except even after this attractive young woman had put his **** in both her mouth and between her legs/and held his hand the entire morning and as much as he tried/and wanted to he couldn’t talk much/and never told her she was his first/that she had taken away that painful embarrassing virginity from him/and that he wanted to see her again/and that he really liked her/and could he call her and.../well none of it happened because he didn’t ask for her number/or tell her anything except for a weak and almost unheard goodbye/and life went on and the drinking went on
/and the awkwardness went on/and luckily or unluckily/the drinking helped with the luck/and he fell in love/and he fell in love again/and again/but he never got past being the strange kid who was horribly shy/even after falling in love and even after *******/and being so intensely shy without having an explanation/or the ability to express that he was so horribly shy/didn’t lead to lasting relationships/and even with the girl he spent five of the best and most beautiful and loving years of his life with/he failed too often at making her feel beautiful and wanted and hot/because he still couldn’t make the first move or even the second move/and eventually it made her feel unloved and unattractive and she left him/and rightfully so because why was he still so shy/how did that make sense/and now he is me and I’m older and known the wiser/still shy/still stupid/and life goes on/though with less drinking/no idea what to do when pulled into the gravity of falling/I could sleep on it/maybe think it all through/ and figure it out/but oh/thats right/I’ve forgotten how to sleep.../alone is nice though/comfortable/quite/and I am the master of quite
EmperorMoth Sep 2018
As you sit up
A few rows forward
Or a few rows back
There is always someone watching shyly
Admiring you...
Wishing to talk to you...

When you wander the halls
With a friend perhaps
Chuckling and mucking around
Yelling how unattractive you are...
There is someone that deeply desires...
To run up to you and sweep you off of your feet
Or to simply kiss you upon the cheek.

When you see that person you crush on so heavily
Wishing they would see you, but can't even hear you
Every time they smile, you buckle and sigh
Because they will never smile at you the way you wish they would..
There is someone smiling at you...
Yet you can't see them...
Wishing they could wipe your sorrows away...

When you go home and swipe through your phone
Watching the pictures of couples
And people sharing a night together
You picture yourself forever in this scene...
While someone wishes on the other side of the screen
Wishing that you could see their eyes
And read what they gleam

You may feel alone...
Ugly...
Worthless...
Forgetful...

.
.
.

But you don't realize one little thing...
Even you...the one who feels the most replaceable...
You have a ghostly admirer...
Thinking about you from a distance
Never to approach you, because you may not like them...

Maybe you're the ghostly admirer...
Wishing you had the guts to change the forbidden tides
To make the way for the other guys...
And yet all it takes is for that person..or you...

To believe in ghosts...invite them in...and
Just maybe...
Your ghostly admirer will come right when
You need them most.
Never wait to appreciate once it's too late.
Molly Rosen Aug 2013
I drop my pencil under a guy's chair and my friend convinces me to ask him for it back because "he's nice I promise" so I work up the courage to call his name as loud as I dare and I just start talking so I can tell him what happened before I lose my nerve, but halfway through I notice he's not listening at all and instead of asking for my pencil I ask him to ignore me. He does.
I met a boy and he was intriguing and clever and sarcastic and not unattractive and I thought he had potential but I waved in the hall and he didn't wave back and he didn't want to sit next to me in class.
I invite a boy I've known since 3rd grade to sit next to me in class, and he does, but then his friend shows up and there's a wistful look in his eyes. He doesn't talk to me, and he switches his seat the next day.
I sit at a crowded lunch table full of people I don't like because the people I do are outcasts. I don't have time to eat all my food.
I switch lunch tables to sit with my crush, by invitation of a friend. They ignore me to talk to each other. I try to join. I ask what's so funny. They shake their heads. He's sitting almost on top of me because the tables are so small but he never even turns to look at me.
Last year he sat with us and talked mostly to me and her table was having drama and fighting and now they all wear skirts to school and look pretty and my eyes are puffy and my legs have a light layer of fuzz which is easy to see because I'm still so pale.
I was the only person to sit alone on the first day of biology class and when I walked in the second day a girl who's never been particularly nice to me and wasn't in the class yesterday is there. She's excited to see me. She asks me to sit next to her. She looks at my paper while I write. I don't say anything because I don't want to sit alone anymore.
I'm stressed out by the second day. Unprepared.
718 more days.
Alyssa Jun 2015
I'm sorry,
i can't love you.
i'm sorry,
you never said something sooner.
i'm sorry,
but this isn't going to work.
i'm sorry,
but we are not for each other.
i'm sorry,
i don't long to talk to you.
i'm sorry,
i find your swearing so unattractive.
i'm sorry,
i hope you find someone else.
i'm sorry,
but what i have to give is not for you.
i'm sorry,
i don't want to share it with you.
i'm sorry,
but i'll help you along the way.
i'm sorry,
for you & your sad life.
hope you don't read this
Gaye Nov 2015
With the house they are selling their childhood and adolescence, five funny brothers and grandmother's sweets, late night dramas and the unattractive maids they inherited, cigarettes they puffed secretly and lessons they learned with jackfruit pulp. Now the roots are being pulled and I wonder what'll be left. I wish people live there, generations come and play on its front yard and I hope my ancestors understand new generation urbanism and modernity.
They are selling the house.
Dre Brax Jul 2014
The word scars has always had a negative connotation behind it. A common name for Mental or Emotional injury is referred to as mental scars or emotional scars. Medically speaking scars or scarring is a step in the natural process your body undergoes to heal. Even though the healing is happening when a scar appears it tends to leave behind what some people see as an unattractive mark or area. Emotional scars and mental scars follow the same rules; a broken heart, the death of a friend or family member. All of these things can give us scars of some form. Having many scars myself I can relate with the desire to cover up or be rid of the unattractive areas on my body or in my life. It can become increasingly frustrating when those scars don't fade over time, or take longer to vanish then we hoped for. However this doesn't have to be a bad thing as quoted by a musical group AA-" How Stubborn are the scars when they won't fade away, or just a gentle reminder that now are better days".

I've had my fair share of "scars" whether emotional, mental, or physical. Each one has a different story, each one is riddled with wouldas, shouldas or I wish; but like the choices I've made to obtain them they are permanent. A Great example of scars as a story is the process of tattooing. Tattooing is the process to scar the skin by injecting ink into the second layer of skin causing it to be stained in the patterned it was scarred. People are in most cases proud of their tattoos, yet try to hide the natural tattoos of life. The body is a blank canvas when you’re born. Through trial and error we have been painted with life experience. Where I’m from scars are worn like the patches on a jacket. “I've been stabbed here or I've been shot there" is a badge of honor. Maimed knuckles were on the hands that lead us to adulthood. We grew up believing that our scars were how we were defined. If my face wasn't torn or my legs weren't spotted from the bruises then I’ll never fit in. Although it’s looking beyond the superficial, I was convinced we still were missing something. We were missing the beauty of those distorted knuckles, the grace in that scraped up knee. We never stopped to realize that we were actually bonding over our flawed skin instead of boasting about, "You should see the other guy".

We shouldn't hide behind the outcome of something that happened but instead smile that we learned from it. It took me a long time to realize just how special each blemish I carry truly was to me. When I look at my shin I don't see I fell and it was painful; I see my wife and I playing soccer and she juked right pass me scoring the winning goal. Something my grandmother always said to me, “You’re only as interesting as the scars you can smile at". For me that sums up things beautifully. Bad things happen to everyday people and even when that scar doesn't fade just remember that now are better days. I can successfully say I’m smiling because now these are truly better days.
this was a speech i wrote
Yenson Aug 2018
Bony small fingers wrapped round the cup and lifted it to pale dry lips
she took a sip and lowered cup
Sat opposite I looked at a face that was once to me the most
beautiful face ever
Now for the first time in my life I had undoubted confirmation
that beauty does fade
And those that say 'beauty is only skin deep were right all along

I was never in love with her, I liked her, liked her a lot, but right
now I sat broken hearted
Heartbroken because to me God's magnificence has been defaced,
the Divine work of The Most Divine has been destroyed
How could this be, how can this happen
Is evil such a powerful force, powerful enough to obliterate the face
of an Angel.

Yes, I know the prettiest Rose will one day wither and die
Yes I know nothing last for ever in our world
Yes I know we will all grow old and die
Yes I know night turns to daylight
Yes I know we all return to dust

It hurt, it hurt, it hurt, for how can Aphrodite turn into Medussa
within the course of a year
To twist the dagger in me more, it seem as if all the changes were by her deliberate design and welcomed by her
How can one blessed as such decide I want to alter myself and look
the most unattractive I can be
It was as if Lucifer stood there, saying 'you see my power, anything
you consider worthy, proper, Holy or beautiful, I can *******, mess up or destroy'...

Small bony claws put down the cup after the final sip, internally I was in stunned disbelief, how cruel is evil, how can an Angel be
thus disfigured. Where is God, why allow this.

I was never in love with her, I liked her but never had any reason
to think we could be an item. But her beauty always reminded me of God's magnificence and induced praise to God anytime I saw her. Now the hurts burnt so deeply into my soul, that I don't believe in the beauty of humans anymore. I was shallow somewhat
Now I know only Inner Beauty matters and everything happens for a reason
Ashes to Ashes
Dust to Dust
Mymai Yuan Sep 2010
It’s been a decade and a half that I haven’t returned back to my little home in that far away magical place. Fifteen years- exploring and travelling through the world. It was always my dream, ever since I was a young boy. Living this life is lonely. No one ever belongs to me, nor do I ever belong to anyone. Seeing a million things is marvelous, but it could be twice as marvelous with a companion to express the feelings over instead of my usual, battered black log book that never talked back but was filled with entries from all over the world. One day, I’ll publish it.

I guess the fact that I was always alone was the reason why the little home and my little mother that I use to take for granted became more and more part of me as I stayed away. The land, the gently curving hills and glassy lake grew clearer and clearer in my mind until sometimes, it was all I could see when I shut my eyes at night after a long day of work. Sometimes I would smell the soap on mothers’ skin acutely and played her voice in my head like a radio.
A blur of bright brown eyes.

I’ve been to almost every country in this world: Japan, France, America, Denmark, China and all the different continents… almost a hundred different countries. Each country held such a different (but slightly similar if they were in the same continent) flavor in the air and never failed to teach me one new thing. They all held such distinct character. Beholding the stunning sights and noticing the heart-wrenching small details of a new place was my passion. It captivated me, but the calm, steady love of my heart remained still.
Nothing touched me like the memory of home and my mother. Not the women who flickered through the chapter of my life, appearing in explosions of lust and never meaning more than ***, though some begged me to stay. My loneliness would sway my path of thinking for a short one or two week before I realized it wasn’t what I truly wanted.  
My lovers reminded me of cookie crumbs fallen from my mouth down onto my shirt- there for a brief, brief moment- sometimes picked up to nibble on or brushed away and forgotten.

Oh Love; Love never found me. Perhaps all the travel I did made it harder for Her to find me. I was never at a place for long. Perhaps She, Love, grew tired of trying to catch up with me as I crossed the seas and vast lands. Maybe She got lost one day in an Indian market with the exotic, fat fruits and glittering bangles- fading off into the air with the aroma of powerfully rich local dishes.
Or maybe I travelled away from Her, and She got left behind.

2 a.m.- On a train: the train is brand new and the metal is still yet glossy and innocent from hard rains, thick snow or fiery heat as the Southern part of my homeland is so prone to. The window is surprisingly see-through, unlike all the muddy windows covered in dust, grime, bird droppings and smashed insects (especially squished mosquitoes) I have looked out of in the past fifteen years. I think I’ll read a few chapters of that book about Cambodian culture to distract my impatient mind: sitting on this cold train that will take me home is all I can possibly think about. Hurry, you ******* train, hurry!
There is something about a train that calms me down and makes me feel all starry-eyed. It is the memory of the only girl I ever loved. A little girl I grew up with. Such thick dark brown hair, big round bright chocolate eyes and the loudest, most obnoxiously boyish laugh I have ever heard from a girl. Hmm, I recalled the small rounded chest and bottom.
We lived so far deep in the country side and one day, on an overnight school trip, the school we attended at took all hundred students on a trip to see the city for just a day. Flashes of her eating a creamy white ice cream sprinkled with tiny candies of the rainbow and standing in awe of the huge library made me smile to myself.
How when everyone was tired that night back on the train, even the teachers exhausted after an early morning and keeping a hundred thirteen-year-olds under control for a whole day, fell asleep. My eyelids were just drooping when she appeared- I smelled her first, sweet like honey with a tinge of something sour like orange or lemon peels. My senses have always been sensitive- especially sight and smell. She carefully peeled back the curtains around the bed, crept into my bunk and cuddled with me, curling her tough plump legs.
My mind flew in many wild ways- for as I said, my senses were sensitive and the curiosity and thrill of an inexperienced young boy did not help to make them any paler- and try as I might to quiet the thoughts, they leapt at her every movement.
I suppose it was her way of telling me she had fallen in love with me. Her cold monkey-feet pressed against me and whispering the night away: her tousled head as she kept sitting up to look out the window on the side to look at the stars. I sat up with her and held her against my chest. I remember wondering how my heart wasn’t bursting from the enormous love I felt for this creature in my lap, watching the dark silhouettes of trees rushing by and the black swaying fingers of rice patties illuminated by needle-point stars and a full, silver moon. The beautiful creature turned around, placed her icy finger tips on my hot neck, and gave a little sigh of relief before leaning in and kissing me.

My skin was covered in goose bumps.

Oranges are my favorite fruit.
I left her, my little home and mother at nineteen. The darling was mine till then. I wrote to her, but when she got around to replying I had already moved. And there my love became my once-loved.
The heart ache didn’t last too long. There was too much to see, I was young and full of cravings and impossible to satisfy hunger despite the countless number of women. I lived in the moment, the fiery moment of passion and life, and the memory of her were blown to wisps.
A ray of pink sunlight broke me from my thoughts and as I rushed back from the past to its future, I wondered in a haze whether she had married or not.

Five a.m. – the sun was up. The sky had streaks of dark blue, so dark it was almost black. A ****** red of a newly-cut wound ran through the sky, arm in arm with royal purple and a pink the color of a child’s lips.

Six a.m. - twenty-two or so students milled into the train chattering. The younger ones have neatly combed hair, slicked down with mousse and parted so aggressively the comb lines are visible cutting the hair in hard chunks with a paper-white hairline slicing through the scalp. The smallest one would be around thirteen and the oldest at eighteen. The oldest-looking one is very pretty with slanted gray eyes and chestnut hair- very matured for her age. A puff of powder to conceal any imperfection of her skin, and the first two buttons on her school blouse unbuttoned to hint at a cleavage of well-developed large *******. Her gaze darts over me frequently. She looks like a lover I had in Holland. I give her a small smile and she returns it, batting her lids to reveal matted dark lashes and shimmery pale blue eyelids like the wings of a butterfly. No child, only if I was much, much younger and had just left home as you will so soon.
A stench of too much perfume emits from the girl beside her. So much that I am momentarily diverted and glance up at her from my log book. I will be relieved when they leave. If there’s one thing I find extremely unattractive in a woman is an overload of perfume- it becomes a stench that is a reminder of gaudy prostitutes.

Six-thirty a.m. -  The train jolts to yet another stop and they clatter out but not before I heard the words, “That man on the train near us was rather handsome, wasn’t he?” I cannot help but chuckle.

Seven a.m. – the train has stopped at least five more stations. This is going to be a long trip. Rummaging in my packed bag for a pair of dark sunglasses I push them on, waiting for the fact that I haven’t slept all two weeks in excitement (and travelling at the speed of light half way around the world at the same time) to kick in and hit me unconscious with sleep.

Two p.m. - the dark glasses cannot block the glaring sunlight of the sunshiny afternoon. We have almost finished passing the city. The rows of buildings, large houses, one-story apartments are narrowing and shrinking in size. I know the railroad tracks have remained unchanged in destination and twenty-so years ago I took this exact same ride but everywhere is unrecognizable.  
I check my wristwatch once again even though I know the time: around nine more hours to go before it reaches the very end possible station and I take the long walk back to my little home.

Six p.m. - I talk amiably to passengers on the train. It is beautiful to hear my home dialect again. The words I speak have grown quite clumsy and my accent is rough. No matter, in two weeks time I’ll be fluent and chirping along with the same fluid accent as the old man beside me is.

Eleven-thirty p.m. – I am all alone on the train. The old man just got off at the station before. He shared a portion of his sandwich with me and a swig of beer from his water bottle (naughty old man), seeing as in my anticipation I forgot to buy any food for the day. A very interesting old man who was delighted to know I travelled just as he use to in his earlier days- quote to remember from him: “Too many people go on about this ******* of a ‘fixed’ home: Home isn’t where you live, son, it’s where they understand you. I’m telling you, that’s something so special in this crazy world.”
It is horrible to be sitting here alone counting down the minutes without a distraction but after all, it is near the last of stations and no one ever comes here anyways. There’s nothing here that could attract visitors. If I were a traveler nothing about this place would excite me very much. Yet for this first time in fifteen years, I’m not an outsider and this land promises me much. My hand shakes from fatigue- but mostly from eagerness. Little home, darling little home, I am coming!
It is a chilly, chilly winter night. My breath pants out in short white puffs. I wrap my scarf more securely around my neck, capturing the warmth as I step out from the warm train into the cold air outside. I can barely notice my environment on the way home except the path has remained unchanged. It is as if I am travelling back into time itself. After a while, the coldness turning the tip of my ears and nose pink is forgotten. All I know is each step is taking me closer and closer to home.

I finally see it. The small little house with a small brown door standing quietly alone next to other identical houses comes into my view. The little homes are clustered on the edge of a river bank, surrounding by dark green trees. The crisp rustling of the leaves in the winter breeze brings a melancholy happiness so great it makes my chest throb. I cup a tiny bit of snow from the ground in my mitten and taste it: oh the same sharp iciness on my tongue.

I wonder if she still lives in that one with the indented steps, the stairs worn out by the thundering saunter of her and her five brothers. They still haven’t bought a new flight of stairs?

The river’s surface is smooth and serene, its surface looking like molten silver rippling in the slight breeze. I remembered in the summer when we, the children, danced; splashing in the water and the elders watched lovingly.

Mother’s carefully watching eyes on me as I swam to and fro, my laughter mingling with everyone else’s. She was especially careful after that near-fateful day when I was six and foolishly went swimming in August without telling mother as she made us her special clear chicken broth. I had inhaled gallons of water before she fished me out, both of us soaking and sobbing. How wonderful it was to hold onto something warm and solid: something breathing, full of life, and I clutched onto her and she clutched onto me and my life.
Up the wooden steps… how surprised mother will be. The ghosts of memories come running to me, pounding their way towards me to greet me first as I open the wooden door with the key slung around my neck as always: mother with her hair curled in soft mocha *****, mother making an ice lollipop in the hot summers in her flower-printed summer dresses, mother swishing around the house cleaning in her blue apron, the hot fire with hot chocolate as we told stories, all the different cats we had purring in a soothing melody… Amalie and her laughing figure spread over the sofa chattering away, Amalie’s quick, hidden kisses in the corners when mother was out of the room or pretending not to look, Amalie’s long hands creeping towards mine… Amalie and mother gossiping together and mother declaring Amalie was the daughter she never had and mother eyeing me knowingly, expecting me to settle my ways and marry Amalie…

Oh little home, I am back, I am home.

I shall go lie on my feathery bed and in the morning I’ll wake up and have no idea where I am before the thought comes back to me that this morning- no, I am not somewhere around half the world away- but in my little hometown.
As sure as the sun will rise, Mother will wake up at her usual eight o’clock and I’ll be downstairs in our sunny-tiled kitchen making a bowl of porridge for her and me.
After her tears and hugs, we’ll sit down by the fire with hot chocolate despite it being early morning and the skies aren’t yet jet-black. I see in my mind’s eyes her dark eyes huge as I unravel my colorful carpet of stories and treasure box of tokens from all around the world.
Maybe after that I’ll ask her whatever became of Amalie…
I hear the tread of footsteps on the stair case. They are heavy sounds. Has mother gained much weight in her old age? She was always a lithe little woman when I was here.
A burly shape appears in the shadows.
For one ******* blindingly stupid moment I think it is mother much fattened in a fluffy night gown, her hair curled up in soft ***** yet again. Perhaps I saw what I wanted to believe despite my senses and instinct suddenly prickling up in one jolt through the spine.
And the shape emerges holding a bat and the outlines gains focus to become a bear-like man with dark brows furrowed and a mass of curls. He starts yelling at me and slashing his bat dangerously.
I raise my arms up in defense and the world swirls around me. From far away I hear my voice shaking in fear and fury, “Where is my mother!” I yell her name and I yell my name to let her know I am here. I am insane with fear for the safety of my mother. No, it cannot be that I come home on the day a demon decides to rob the house of a frail gentle angel. If he has killed her, I will- “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO HER?!”
“What?” he asks in a tone quiet from extreme bewilderment, his grip on the bat loosens and I am quick to see this and take advantage of it.
With an explosion of violent swears I leap onto him to throttle him to death. “MOTHER?! MOTHER! WHAT HAVE YOU ******* DONE TO MY MOTHER?! I’M GOING TO ******* **** YOU, YOU *******!”
A fast pattering of feet sound down the stairs and my mind registers them to be female before I am wrenched of the man and we are separated. I am about to clutch this woman safe from the hulking beast before I notice the skin on the hands pushing my panting chest away from killing the beast are too young to be mothers’. Her hair is a dark mahogany brown, not mild coffee like mothers’.
I stare at her, silent in shock. All the fight drains out of me.
Those eyes that were once so chocolate-brown and bright have lost their sparkle in her tiredness and appear almost… dull as she turns to me.
She says my name three times before I can reply. “Sit down here.”
It is strange that she has ordered me to sit down on my own sofa in my living room. Her frosty hands guide me. “Amalie… where is mother?” I manage to stutter, all the time keeping an eye on the monster of a man.
“Listen to me” she took a few shuddering breaths, “I’m sorry to tell you this way, I wished I could’ve told you any other way but this… your mother is dead. She died five years ago.”
She watched me with an exhausted expression, “In her will she left this house to you and me because she assumed one day-” she shot a cautious glance at the man who towered in the shadows next to her, nursing
Martin Narrod Sep 2014
I call it poison, but perhaps you won't. These cold pressed apples, pineapples, and spearmint only paste more modge podge over my face as I schlack it on...gritting my teeth I light yet another cigarette, now that's 2 packs of Marlboro Red Labels now onto American Spirits Light Blue. Cancer isn't coming fast enough. I wish I would at least be ******* out my innards by now, I haven't even vomited, maybe I'll take that toothbrush I bought for you to use when you would stay the weekend, that I haven't gotten around to whitening the sink with. Maybe I can do that Sunday. FUUUUCCK!!!! I am not praying I make till then. I don't know if I can even breathe another hour like this. I haven't drawn a sober breath in years- I'm on the wagon, but I was just transferred from a wheel into the **** bag for a horse. Being ****- at least it's something I am used to (a sigh of temporary relief washes over me. Or is it finally the Nicotine buzz I've been hoping for since I escaped to the forest with an airplane bottle of Southern Comfort[Brainstem: South to the **-femalien crease that's been comforting all these years, where are you now?] , and a pack of my Uncle's cigarettes to find out the first time how to make the pain she's gave me go away.

Men drink essentially because they can no longer illicit their needs.

You who I wasn't even attracted to at first, where together we barely called [Brainstem: this is where I construct a motive for using a chainsaw to pick my nose with] . You who I can now remember the way a mixture of your hair, body spray, sweet sweat, and vintage knits began leading my nose and my memory towards one of the greatest happinesses and darkest times I have EVER had.

[Brainstem: I just hate him. The kind of hate you have for a mosquito, a person who encourages you to speed up while they're walking without reflectors or night-lights in the middle of the road at night with their dog- that kind of hate. The hate that has me smoking my cigarettes to their orange and gold filters, that has me staying awake, unable to touch my own **** because it's already started staying at someone else's place and looks like two Californian Prunes and a shriveled overcooked mini-hotdog does. The kind of hate that has me burping up what smells like rotten eggs or bial.

....Out of nowhere without anything but the image of a virginate 21 year old casing around my aorta, lying in my bed in just a pair of her Fuschia & White Victoria Secret striped 100% cotton ******* that ever so slightly crease inward into the creases where her skinny young legs meet the ever-so-bite-worthy crease....After our first official date where we knew we weren't going to **** each other but rather she was focused on her breathing hoping I wouldn't be able to notice how excited she was [Crime: #4] then step away and find an imaginary monster that challenges every thought I have, conversations and incidents and challenges and givers and receivers and lines and dots, darts, knives, life, and *** and blood faintly stained onto the bottom of the that 1 1/2" piece of fabric which is the biggest obstacle between us.

While I write, recall, remember and dictate and draft up this piece, I realize that I am not the lawyer visiting the killer in prison OR even the killer cruising around in a slightly rusted robin's egg blue Volkswagen Anti-Climaxer, I am not even part of the story anymore, after you decided it was acceptable to be so graphically forward with me (I take another Xanax that's beginning to be two an hour that I avoid taking) Interspliced are scenes from Dexter, versions of serial killer life, visions of this fake superstar with his **** out flailing around spurting a little streaky one shot of *** onto your tongue and in your mouth, or maybe you were plastered with it.

I just know it's good I don't have a gun, I could go for a bullet sandwich 9 times over about now. I never touched, discussed, abused, misused, lead on, flirted with; I never did anything unattractive with the exception of being a heavy smoker and a low-earner right now, but I see women even younger than you make better choices than you. In fact right now I believe you will not even breathe on me. But it's no matter I have the reconstructed skeleton of his severed body parts I let soak in hydrofluoro until I could pick away what little gum-like pieces of pink sinew are still left. (Dexter: The Sarge and The Lieutenant walk  out of the precinct at the same noticing each other.

Do you believe that I really handed over the upper-hand to you? I've never had someone begging to **** my **** on a Thursday and getting a fake celebrity ****** from an awesome artist. And what really ***** the hammer and lifts my limp **** and ****-ticket up to your pretty little mouth, is knowing that eventually you will have to be alone again, and the shine of this excitement will wear off, and then I TOO CAN PLAY THE GAME.

1. Time to light the cigars.
2. I present the Nicaruagan landscapers' body, George Marshall, who is better known as 'The Skinner."
3. I accept that you're going to think being honest about your most promiscuous moments is attractive to talk about. I certainly thought that, up until you That is.
4. No more chocolate cake, again.
5. Throw out the soda.
6. Start taking Amphet Salts and running away from home and into everyone I would've liked to kick with my foot, bare, filthy, and furious into their cheekboned. Then smear the bottom of my oily and baby-***, **** and inviting foot into your Hood until you spray like the five hundred other times you tell me you didn't. But even all this. This cell phone, this furniture, the awful sound of the train all night, the illusion and total manic state that puts diplopic faces of imaginary people between me and the rest of the world.

I need to know, do you even want to here this? Are you confused? What led you to come over or invite yourself here?

Pills, blade, play, or having that kid. But putting up with his ******* to be in the background of thought as someone while I was at home with his four kids. And I just relax then because, while I thought organizing the tower room to serve our primary guest of action was necessary when I looked at it so lit up by the buildings across the way shining their light through its atrium making all of the room much more suited for making art, writing and dancing. This is a huge handful of good-naturedness in a friend that can't seem to get off the phone and I must have to hid the monkey. I have to go to Walmart and return the monkey. I will...... and this is the biggest luxury, the hotel maintenance will even cover up my own series of murders or Dexters.

You believe me right sweetheart. You're my closest friend, but she is worn together and I just like the rings I own to be worn by you so that you don't get the idea to slip up and not just give me more anneurisms for my ****** up already head, or cancel the party, but really play that game and seee them cased out, otherwise I could be...a? A Cosmetic Manufact- "I believe in Freedom." You said.
"hahahaha", I can see that got you where you are today, postulating my grief by throwing self-care out the window and just judging me based on what you don't relate to instead of what you do relate to.

PS I know you didn't have time to let anyone know I was coming already? Until I snuck a peak and figured out you had been casing me the whole time from beginning to end to break me. But I'm not broken. I'm just not eager to be touched by anyone else of the ** form other than you for a minute. I also have time believing that while you were scared of me giving you your first ***-to-mouth experience while I stand you up in a skirt in the back of the school bus. And I can recognize tears of someone around us, and so I stand up and I recognize that it's my friend Stephen who is really (...is really, an imagined hologram of myself I invent to learn about myself in dreams, and other horrific events that my mind shuts down for, and no you're not the only 5' foot and 5" inch blonde haired ex of mine that performs from the camera but not for the eye. It will all come out in the wash regardless. I better to get goin.....I could write on and on and on and on about all of these multi-secular, uninhibited, depressing suggestions from the same bill my sister has to pay her Electric and Water monthly on, but I need to not sleep to make the need more. And even though I say the photo of her touching a single toe with a dead boring hell bent nobody Phillistine that could care less about her Grandfather being sick or her getting an STI or STD or if she is taken care of. But I do. I will. I don't stop being the good natured caring and and passionate person I am just because someone I really thought was going to take me an honest man, just taught me to be more meticulous in making sure I dispose of the body properly... But maybe she isn't playing pretend, maybe she's just another Fake Prada caught up in the mix.
This isn't necessarily the end of this. I'm just gonna stop for tonight putting a pen to it.
Careena Mar 2014
It took a picture of you in a fedora
To make me realize
That I don't have any love for you anymore

I was just walking around
Somewhere and saw saw it unintentionally
And you just looked unattractive to me

After struggling with feeling so many things
Disinterest is so freeing
To feel like you looked ugly

To feel something other than
Wanting you
Or being hurt by you
Or feeling inferior
Not good enough to be in your world

Your expression
Your frown
Everything about it

Made me realize
That the unhappiness you really feel
Is reflected outward in your pictures
And that is what made you unattractive
"No one can make you feel inferior without your consent"- Elanor Roosevelt
To clarify, the ugliness on the outside is what I saw from the inside, how he treats people and treats himself is ugly, so I just saw him as unattractive
Sierra Aug 2016
It’s okay, I only cry sometimes, I lie,
Because being honest and admitting to
Days filled with endless tears is
Unattractive
And nobody likes a weak girl with wet eyes
Tears mean
Instability
In the eyes of stones who masquerade
As human beings.

It’s okay, I only cry sometimes, I say,
Like when reading a book and it hits me
Harder than expected
Like on drunken nights when I’m lonely and
My past haunts me
Like the times when I’m really, truly, kind of
Very happy
Or when I’m numb to everything
And sometimes when nothing at all
has happened but I’m still moody

But it’s okay,
because honestly,
*I only cry sometimes.
claire May 2015
Here is where I sit and dig my teeth into my lower lip and extract the splinter of you from my heart, so I can drip red onto the paper and make it into words. Here is where I tell you how much I ached for you and never said anything. Here is where I laugh regretfully over the word ‘crush,’ which in the end fulfils its title so perfectly. Here is where I bleed.

Fact #1:
You didn’t do anything special to make me like you.
There was no zealous epiphany or grand gesture that sent butterflies streaming through my abdomen. You were horribly wonderfully you, and that’s what did it. That is what tipped me over the edge.
I remember the precise instant everything changed. The pendulum swung into unfamiliar territory; I looked at you and a powerful case of vertigo rocked my being. I may have grabbed onto something. A desk. A chair. Anything to keep me standing until my head resettled on my shoulders and the world was normal again. In any case, you were oblivious. I watched you, both sorry and glad that you were, and struggled not to drown.

I don’t blame you. It wasn’t your fault. How could you have sensed the seismic shift I was so careful not to telegraph? How could you have known I’d go and do something so moronic as get a crush on you? I’m sorry, dear. I am. I wish I hadn’t.

Fact #2:
You think no one has ever had feelings for you.

(What an uncomfortable phrase, Had Feelings For You. Sounds like there’s some sort of compartment in my heart labelled with your name, as though if you cut it open and looked inside you’d see ash and glitter suspended like dust motes in light. Impossible, infinite).

You think this because you’re human, and humans tend to see the worst in themselves. You’re—according to you—awkward, bothersome, repressed, weird, unattractive, alone, different, inferior. You worry over the biggest things, the smallest things, and everything between. You crack open with great frequency.

However.
However.

There is someone in this world who loved you, who loves you still (in a deep deep recess of her soul), who wishes she’d been brave enough to tell you; wishes also that she’d been able to hold you and kiss you and run wild with you in every beautiful place.
You are worth someone’s feelings, and there is a heart out there full of ash and glitter in your name, beating away.
Sadly, you’ll never know whose.

Fact #3:
Crushes ******* sting.

(Don’t look, don’t look at their eyes, don’t look at the color in them or the flare, hold your breath, think of anything else, remind yourself that they can’t, they won’t, it’s stupid. Call them friend, just Friend, because that’s what they want. Don’t let them see the way you pine for them, the roaring creature in your chest. Don’t. Don’t.)

Fact #4:
You didn’t return my feelings.

Inevitably, the person we find ourselves pulled to always lets something slip. A mention of a third party with whom they’d like to (and to me it sounds so painful, so ominous) “get to know.” A giggle when a certain girl or boy passes. An admiring look thrown their way.
Worse, the object of our longing declares they like no one at all, and that’s my story. I’m sorry to say I thought, for just a bit, that you did. It’s my fault for misreading the signs. I take full blame. I’m human, too, after all, and I know very little. Who am I to project my fantasy onto you?

It still hurts, though. Aches in a way I don’t wish to remember or relive, ever. Not being liked back takes the form of black, rolling nausea, which I felt when I laid prone on my bedroom floor, eyes numb and full, breathing air all thick with dead things. It’s a sickness, a condition. A person cannot get over it any quicker or easier than they can a tumor. It can recede or overwhelm and usually one has no say in this gamble.
In my case, there is both. The pain fluctuates from day to day, lifts and falls. I see you and we laugh, and, internally, privately, I bleed. But you don’t need to know that. I will not have you see me as some weak or broken thing when what I am is on fire, hot with a glowing sadness. I’m a survivor of nuclear detonation. My heart was once spattered on these walls, this page, but I’ve gathered it up and molded it together again and it doesn’t look at all how it used to, but today it’s (almost) whole.

Fact #5:
A piece of me will always wish you wanted her the way she wanted you.

I think of other universes, split off from ours: a myriad of alternate trajectories. Perhaps in one of them we are together. Perhaps we looked and we knew and we melded. Who knows? What a silly, futile wish.

That is pain and reality. That is life.
Chalsey Wilder Jul 2014
I feel like last place
Where you only get a thin paper metal
I feel forgotten and unloved
I feel useless and unattractive
I feel worthless
*And I am only remembered if someone needs help on the computer at home or if someone wants to copy my class/homework at school
I feel like that. Everyday.

— The End —