I remember when I was 12
There was this really cute guy
He had the most perfect hair
And the most amazing smile
I felt this connection between us
This little spark of attraction
And I liked him so much
That I named it was love
But day after day passed
And someone asked
'So you like her?'
'Nah'
I was broken
'Why?'
'Because she likes One Direction!'
'What if she didn't?'
'Still, not a bit'  
'Why?'
'Honestly, she looks like a pig!'
And there I was
In a broken hearted barn
In the mud of insecurity
As a filthy creature, darned
I could cry, I could wail
But I held myself and slept
Dreamless darkness seemed
So much better than the real
And when I woke up
Just for a moment
I thought it's all okay
But then it struck me like a lightning bolt
Everything came crashing down
I hated myself so much
For being so fat, ugly and hairy
For how I looked and who I was
For my skin and my very bones
And from that day on
I let him define for me
My being, my beauty, my value in life
And love, how it'll never be mine

Have you ever been Sad? And I mean Sad with a capital S. It's the type of sadness that makes the world lose its color. It's the type of sadness that makes your favorite song sound dismal and discordant. It's the type of sadness where you go as long as humanly possible without eating because just the sight of food makes you nauseous. It's the type of sadness that makes it nearly​ impossible to sleep, but when you finally succumb to your exhaustion your dreams are plagued with nightmares and you wake up at 3:07 in the morning, gasping for breath, tears streaming down your cheeks soaking the collar of your ill-fitting
t-shirt, unable to breathe because the pain in your chest is rendering you speechless and the only coherent thought in your head is why the **** am I like this. Have you ever been that sad? I've always been that sad. And I've always been told that it'll be ok. But I'm still waiting. And at this point I'm not sure if waiting is worth it anymore.

I can’t write this poem
I can’t write this poem because the last time I opened up to someone artistically they told me it was pretty dark and I should keep it to myself.

I can’t write this poem
I can’t write this poem because I was raised in a culture that was anti love and pro meaningless ***. I saw endless commercials about movies that glamorize a lifestyle in which your body is fulfilled but your heart is ignored and at that impressionable age I learned my heart came second but my allure came first and the less I cared that happier I would be and I carried that belief around with me the way I used to carry around a Bible as a child.

I can’t write this poem
I can’t write this poem because of the time that I opened my father’s phone to reveal a family secret I would hold to this day against my own moral instincts unraveling miles of insecurities wondering if I’m not a good enough daughter or if he stopped loving my mother or if true love was never real and although I had been taught marriage was my purpose, it was what I believed would make me happy, maybe rings aren’t enough to stay in love and maybe people’s feelings change and maybe no one actually has a “one true love” and that this purpose I had been taught was really an endless wild goose chase that only lead to broken families and lost souls.

I can’t write this poem
I can’t write this poem because sometimes I still wonder why I fell into an abyss of toxicity at such a young age. And when I say wonder I don’t mean a trivial ponder, I mean I contemplate every possible reason why the person who I once believed held the universe in her eyes would lie to my face, why she never kissed me in public and our love was always a secret, why she valued girls with blue hair but my blonde hair was not good enough, why I had to hide bruises from my family when I was still in high school or more importantly, why at the time, I thought I deserved them. These thoughts, this lingering paranoia that I am undeserving of healthy love, they muddy my interpretations of real life and distort reality and effect my relationships. My doctor would call these intrusive thoughts, my best friend would tell me they’re symptoms of PTSD, but I have come to realize that I’ve been burned and I am damaged and I hope to god I can recover.

But you,
Oh god, you
You can write this poem. You can be my safety net while I’m free falling in love. You can be the one to listen to my mental tilt-a-whirls, you can be the one that introduces my body and my heart, you can be the one that calms the storms in my mind when I’m questioning the love I’m deserving of. You are the one who makes sure I fall asleep in my bed after drunk nights, you are the one that still sees my value after acknowledging my flaws.
You can write this poem.

"The Second Richest Man in the World" could turn his turds into Elizabeth Taylor look-alikes.