I walk into church and know I don't belong.
Feel the eyes tracking me down like its the final judgement.
Put me down like a dog for my sins that are emphasized by the lens of stained glass,
Then hang my beat body to be "saved."

(Y)our lord and savior died on that cross for the salvation of humanity, yes?
Then it makes sense why you dehumanize me, because I seem to not be on the roster.
I can repent all I want but it won't change who I am, only whose mask I wear for the holy supper.

Tell me I'll be eternally ****** for my estrangement.
Thats alright. I'm practically already there.

Nothing works,
I took all they gave.
Therapy,
Diagnoses,
Drugs.

And they took all I had.
Blades,
Technology,
Privacy,
My sense of self.

All to get "better."
"Better."

It seems that nothing works.
I'm just the same as before.
Or - I can't remember before,
I don't think I was there for that,
I was off where my own thoughts couldn't hurt me
(Maybe it got so bad because I wasn't there. I let go of my body and let It take the steering wheel and steer me towards my death.)

All I know is that right now, I feel like
nothing.
nothing.
nothing.

You were supposed to fix it.
What happened?
Why does nothing work?

when I die
I will decompose
and be made
into something alive

I am living
made out of
decomposed bits
of dead things.

is anything ever really dead?
is anything ever really alive?

I don't know.

but my heart beats
and the earth breathes
just the same.

You are the main character of your own story, so you better start acting the part.

Love.
Hate.
Grieve.

Treat yourself.
Boast shamelessly.
Feel pretty.

Be childish.
Be emotional.
Be angsty.

Be human.
Be you.
Just be.

I am the apple that fell off the family tree.
They say I don't fall far,
and its true.
Its impossible to completely rid of my roots.
But I still have the power to do what those stiff branches were too stubborn and fixed to:

Grow.
Grow from their flaws and generational hurt.
Plant the seed of healing which will grow with the generations to come into a new tree with deeper roots and riper fruit.

It hurts to detach myself from my history,
But it would hurt more to put my children through the same pain.

Am I physically unable to succeed, like, ever?

I mean, come on world, cut me some slack!
I'll try as hard as I want,
give you whatever you want,
Just let me have this,
please.

I say this, and I mean it.
I give up every part, piece, fragment of myself  
Just to keep failing over and over and over again.

I'm telling you guys, its seriously not fair.
But fine...

I'll just slowly disintegrate into the Earth
Like all dead things do.
Maybe, then I'll grow into something thats actually good
and beautiful
and worthwhile,

Like - like a flower growing from *******!
And not like a total failure and complete waste of space.

Once I tried to convince myself that it was seasonal,
And that it would pass like the chilly weather.

Then flowers started to blossom,
But I was still stuck in the bud of my mind
And birds came back from migration,
But my happiness didn't.
Though there were no more flurries of snow in the air,
There were still blizzards in me.

Now, I wasn't only freezing,
But I was alone.
While my teeth were chattering,
I watched everyone else have fun in the sun.
With no one here, no one to snuggle up with, it's impossible to keep warm.
I tried to reach out at least a hand to their summer world,
But it could never reach me.
It's almost like I have a repellent on me,
And no matter how hard i scrub,
It always remains.
But of course, I'm not going to drag others into this winter with me.
Because I know the nature of it.
And I wouldn’t want to inflict it on anyone;
Once it begins, it'll never end.

This eternal winter
has no escape.
This eternal winter
Will be the death of me.

Don't you wish, sometimes, that you could turn your brain off?

Sometimes they're all at once, one after the other
Those are usually the self-deprecating ones
They're like little flecks of hot cigarette ash on my heart
on my
           mind
that don't feel all that bad.
but when its one
after another                       𝘸𝘩𝘺 𝘥𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘶𝘱
after another                       𝘸𝘩𝘺 𝘤𝘢𝘯'𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘥𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵
after another                       𝘯𝘰𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘴
It consumes me in flames
The scalding heat leaving my heart melted and my mind raw
Until it's nothing but ash and
nothingness.                       𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨.

Other times, they're completely random and
really ******* atrocious.
𝘚𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘶𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘳 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘳.
𝘍𝘭𝘪𝘱 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦.
𝘗𝘶𝘭𝘭 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘪𝘳.
𝘚𝘩𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘩.
𝘛𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘰 𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘷𝘦𝘴.
𝘙𝘶𝘯 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘤.
𝘛𝘰𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮.
𝘑𝘶𝘮𝘱 𝘰𝘧𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘥𝘨𝘦.
𝘛𝘸𝘪𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘢𝘳𝘮 𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘪𝘵 𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘬𝘴.
𝘉𝘢𝘴𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘭.
𝘛𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘬𝘯𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘭𝘢𝘮 𝘪𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘰𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘴,
𝘖𝘳- 𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳, 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘣 𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘵
𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯                                
                                 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯                
              𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯.

It's terrifying.
Makes me think I'm going insane, or that I'm some monster
which, in transparency, isn't so unbelievable.

I truly just wish, most the time, that I could turn my brain off.

My love,

I missed you,
The way you held me and caressed.
Distracted me from all else
and kept me safe from my fears.

You traced my body like I was a sculptor
That you just had to make perfect.
I wanted so badly to be perfect.

I didn't mind fitting in the cusp of your hand, edge of your blade.
But they say you chipped away at me, make me smaller.

Isn't that what sculptors do?

...

They took you away from me, my love, I'm sorry.

But as I let go,
I was able to rebuild what you broke.

It was never you who broke me though, was it?
It was me, really, allowing you to do so.
And just as I am enabled destruction, I am able to recover.

My scars heal,
But still they remind me of you.
I miss you, so much so that sometimes I go back,
But I now know that I am more than your rigid sculpture,

I am the ever-changing product of my own acts of creation.

Twain
Rose
LOOK "RIGHT"

FLOWER
Said
not

My disgust and horror

the
Greatest Rose
doesn't
ACTUALLY HAPPEN SOMETIMES

I would cry over spilled milk
But not spilled blood.

Because, the spilled milk is actively disrupting my linear and strictly constructed plan to make cereal and therefore also everything that comes after it, and I would have wasted milk and so prevented a future me from the cereal breakfast pleasure.

But, if the blood is my own, I can usually disconnect myself from the injury and just not notice, ignore, or press a paper against it to prevent bloodying everything and go on with my day with but a slight sensation in my finger. If its more dire, I'd disconnect just the same, but be slightly more irritated as it would now disrupt routine but still probably be fine. If not my own, then I'd really struggle to care, as I do not have much of the ability to transfer another's pain to myself via the superpower everyone seems to have called "empathy".

Me crying for spilled milk and not blood
does not make me alien.
It just makes me some sort of sick ******.

Huh.
I think I rather just be an alien.

Tonight, I met again with the waxing crescent
hanging lowly and gently in the night sky.

Nearby, a confident small star twinkled
"See me,
See my beauty,
One that can compare to that of your great moon."

I look, and see
That this star had made its mark in the night
Marking it like the mole on your face.

Its not much next to your eyes or lips or smile
Or the wondrous mysterious moon.

But still, this small star made the great night
Just that much more beautiful.

Society sees us as black and white,
Good or bad,
Wrong or right,
Even their shades of gray are seen as improper and strange and not right.

But I am not black or white and
I am not those shades of gray,
I am bent light.

I strive when it's rainy and shine high and bright
I am the small ray of rainbow light,
A ROYGBIV full of life.

Even if they say I'm too blinding,
I'll keep on shining and I won't conform.
I’ll blind them with my radiating pride.
I won't let the world see me in black and white.

They don't understand how I can't control my need to
Pull
Scratch
Tap
Bite
Pinch
Rock
Pick
&
Fidget
Constantly
Because
I just need to,
To not implode.

My life is an act.
I'm pretending all the time.
And the crazy thing is that it's still not right.
It's still not enough.
Again and again, i ask the world "why cant i be normal?"
The world never responds.
I play every part I'm asked, but an actor can't play two in the same scene.
What do you want me to do?
I don't understand

I'm so tired

There are many opposites in this world:
light and dark,
And love and hate,
bliss and pain,
And Life and Death.
What is Life and Death?

The concept of Life and Death is millenniums of years old,
And the answer is different for every individual you ask
They may say that life is a short experience that every individual goes through
They may say that its a blessing that we must take advantage of
They may say that its a curse that we all must suffer
They may say that we’re here for a specific predetermined reason
And they may say that its nothing until we make something from it
There are many theories and beliefs of what happens after
Some say that you go to another world where you can live in peace and happiness
Another of distress and suffering
Or you just go through another life in a new body under a new name
Or your soul inhabits another animal or object
Or it remains just wandering, bodilessly
And many speculations more…
Then there are others who may say that there is simply nothing.

Life
Life is when your soul has a body to control,
A mind to inhabit,
Dreams to fulfill
It allows that spirit to interact with other spirits to build and create
Life is full and stimulating and always moving
Life is a course of events,
One action impacts the next impacts the next impacts the next…
Life grows and flourishes
Life develops and changes every day and every second and every moment
You have the ability to make your world a utopia
The choices you and others make can impact the next
But those choices won’t always lead to success
Sometimes they’ll lead you to failure
Misery
Disappointment
And sometimes you won’t always get to choose what happens
Life is unexpected
But we have retellings of other’s lives
Rules and guides on how to live our own
Regulations and laws (that aren’t always followed)
Rewards and punishments
Life is a blessing
Life is a curse
Life is everywhere
Life is now.

Death
Death is when your conscious leaves your physical state for eternal time.
We haven’t yet met death, but it still feels familiar
Do we see death in between our stages of wake and sleep?
Or in moments of shock after impact?
Or maybe when our heart drops during a fall?
Its funny being agnostic because no theory of life after death fully satifies
I’d imagine that right before death, a melancholious chill would spead over,
Inabiling every part of you
Segment by segment
Limb by limb
Memory by memory
Then you and your soul would be let free
No longer having to carry the weight of your body, the weight of your thoughts,
An infinite dreamlike state, except with no pictures or visions.
A peaceful, dreamless, light, nothingness.
A freedom from life.
But maybe death is different
It’s interesting being agnostic because no theory of life after death feels sure
Thats the thing, we don’t fully know
Thats why its so scary, it’s unknown
And you can’t undo it, you can’t go back
Death is interminable
Death is inevitable
Death everywhere
Death is the end.

So what is Life and Death?
They are…
…

I fear that I'm an insignificance of the universe
Lost in the marvelous stars and moons

But, even the pieces in a puzzle that are but a fragment of ocean or sky that have so many others like it
Are the only one of its kind

But, they're only noticed when they've gone missing.

Why don't I feel good about this?
I've been practically killing myself for 3 years and... I got what I wanted.

"Wanted".

Did I really want this?
Was all that for just this?
I should be grateful, I know I should,
but I still find myself asking why.

Why?

They didn't do ****, I did.
They told me and all I said was "oh, wow".
I can't say I didn't expect it, but, I don't know.

I don't know.

I'm not mad that I got it, of course, but not really happy either.
I don't really feel anything about it. I tell people, and I don't feel any pride, just nothing.

Nothing...

nothing
nothing
nothing
nothing.

I am heavy
with hurt.
Both mines, and yours

And the hurt of
My mother,
a woman who deserves commited love.
And my father,
a boy who shouldn't have starved.
And my grandmothers,
girls that grew up too fast and too far away from home.

And the for all the children of the world,
all of us whose ability to love others and ourselves in a silly, gentle, erratic, genuine, inperfect, beautiful way was lost with boxed up toys and discarded sugary cereal boxes.

And for the world,
a once beautiful place that has been forced to endure careless brutality and abuse that is now scarred and broken and yet is still fighting for itself.

Like all the children of the world
Like my grandmothers
Like my father
Like my mother
Like you
Like me.

It's a heavy load to carry,
But I'm not planning to give in any time soon.

Poetry isn't the description of the unique, never before heard.
Poetry is the carefully crafted common
The familiar and mundane
As an abstract art.

I like to hide out in my mind
when the world is too much to handle.

It's safe in here.
Dark and serene.
No one to hurt me,
Nothing to fear.

Sometimes, though,
I’m hidden for too long.
I get too comfortable in here.
Too comfortable.

Ready or not, here I come!

If no one comes out to find me,
Seek for me,
Then I won’t be hiding.

I’ll be lost.

Despite what you might think,
"I don't know"
Is an answer.

Stop telling kids they have to know,
Right when they're asked to.

Take your time.
The best decisions stem from
"I don't know."

They find ways to argue
                                      with their inside voice
                                                                              so that when anyone asks

They can say I was just being dramatic.


                                                                                    I pretend to not listen
                                          Keep my headphones on
Ignore my own inside voice

                                                                                And pretend its all okay.

Sit across the psychologist,
and wait as they assess how to fix you.

Ignore the persistent buzzing from the ceiling, keyboard clacking,
box of what seems to be sedatives - just in case this goes wrong.

Pretend that you're having friendly conversation,
all while insides fail and you wonder if you'll make it to the end.

Tell them all the deepest darkest secrets,
those that you wouldn't dare whisper even to yourself at night.

Notice how they watch you with a critical eye,
picking you apart and laying out the pieces of yourself.

Don't flinch as they crudely collect the most painful parts,
for that just shows that theres still some left in you.

Don't whimper in grief as they discard of these ragged fragments,
dropping in a solution of escitalopram and hollow affirmations.

Don't notice how this left you with was an empty sort of numbness,
it's just apart of the process.

Don't tell them that of the shards still left wounds,
because it'll scar over and heal in (a long long interminable) time.

Don't mention how you still don't feel okay,
because then you must just be doing it wrong.

Don't tell them how you're still not, and will possibly never be okay,
Don't tell them that those shards are only growing,
Don't tell them that you're empty,
Don't tell them that you sort of miss the insisting hurt,
Don't tell them how you are simply not capable of being "okay",

because then they'll have to take more drastic measures.
Anything to help you get "better".

Please, if you're going to say you love me,

Say that you love me the way you love the sunrises on school mornings,
City nights where the stars are shining bright enough to touch,
Plants flooding fire escapes,
Stained glass windows nonexclusive to churches,
Sweet watermelon on a salty beach,
The beady-eyed plush dinosaur I carry by my side,
and the waxing-gibbous.

Oh, please love me the same as the waxing gibbous.

Don't say your parents don't love you.
I wish my parents loved me.
They're not liars, at least not in that sense,
But I fear that they love the concept of their daughter more.

Don't paint them to be loveless monsters.
They're not, I know they're not.
Thats what makes it hurt more.
The fact that they hold so much love
That I am simply unworthy of.

Don't you love them?
I do,
But aren't I allowed to love myself more?

Like, nothing thats happening to you is actually happening to you.
Like you're just watching other people's lives play out in a book or a movie.
Like you're the side character.
Like nothing actually matters and you're just doing it for the sake of the plot.

Like nothing is real.

Like you're playing from the third person, just above the character.

Like you're not real.

Like every day is just a repeat of the last.
Like you're the only real one
Like everyone else are just actors and someday someones going to come from behind the curtain and say
HA PRANKED.

Like the sunsets are too beautiful to be real.
Like the squirrels crossing the street stare for too long for this to be real.
Like all that is meaningless is too important for this to be real.
Like all the sounds are too artificial to be real.

Like nothing is real.
Like nothing is real.

Like how when you wave your hand in front of your eyes and

Its not real.

Like when you pinch your skin hard hard hard until you bleed and maybe it hurts it doesn't matter and it doesn't really because this body is not yours, just a vessel you were forced into because

You're not real.

Like how you're not even sure who you are anymore, because you're nothing but fragments of broken things, nothing things, nothing,

You're not real.

You're not here,
You're not in here,
You were never meant to be here,
You're nothing.

You're not real.

I have a lost for inspiration
so I’m offering to you
A poem about this lost
cause I just don’t know what to do

I have thought of many ideas
A poem about perfection
A poem about stars
A poem about a piano
A poem about feelings and emotions
Poems of all kinds
But all the end results were bland
So I’m doing what I can
By writing this poem
This horrid poem of mine

The chance of me submitting this poem is low
But if I don’t do this I wouldn’t know where to go
My mind a confusing mush
So this is a poem of nonsense
If you want you can just stop reading
And you wouldn’t have to hear this rambling

I honestly don’t know how poets do it
Cook up all these ideas from their mind
How can it can be so full of thoughts
Cause from how many most of them write
I’m sure their filled with lots
I would be blessed to have a mind of a poet
But I don’t… so that’s unfortunate

I guess I may end it here
You probably didn’t like this poem
Neither did I
But if you did like it
I guess that’s fine

I hope you haven’t lost too many braincells reading this
Honestly, with writing poems, I’m helpless

How can you love me
When the name you know me by
Isn't truly me?

It lurks in the night
Waiting for my vulnerability
To lure me into its unforgiving hold
So it could wrap me in its cocoon
Ever so tight
And hollow my insides

Washing over me
Like a tsunami
Consuming me
Like a beast
Spreading
Like wildfire

And I cant touch the flames
I cant slay the monster
I can't swim countercurrent

I can't do anything
Except cry
And suffer
And reduce
Into nothing.

Sometimes I crave for addiction
Just to have something dependable,
Consistent.

I already have it though, don’t I?
As they said, if I wanted to stop being “sad”
Then I would just stop.

How can I, though?
This is safe, this is still.
This is pain.
This is me.
All I am.
All I’ll ever be.

The depression is “persistent” after all.
More persistent than I’m willing to be.

Things I'm good at:
- Keeping A grades
- Public speaking
- Making people happy
- Pretending to be okay
- Sleeping
- Making a fool of myself
- ******* up my body
- ******* up other people's life
- Crying
- Giving up

Things I'm bad at:
- Guitar
- Patience
- Managing my emotions
- Self control
- Self care
- Sleeping
- Socializing
- Communicating
- Being a good friend
- Being a good "daughter"
- Being a good Christian
- Being a good person
- Being a person
- Being anything

- Poetry?

Losing hours of sleep
Hours of my life
Over things that don't matter,
Won't matter in a few years time.

Why?
Why must you torture me in such a way?
Why,
Why must you make me fall in love with it, the feelings of achievement and acceptance,

Only to break my heart when I fall subpar?
When I'm a B-grade,
Grade leveled,
Average
Disappointment.

Why is anything less than perfect disappointing?
Why am I losing sleep over this?
Why am I losing my life over this?

My heart beats
beats                                       BEATS               beats
            beats  beats                    BEATS
       BEATS                          beats                BEATS
an unrhythmic beat

Just a sip
and my heart wants to skip
a couple of pumps
and add a couple of thumps

I bought myself a cup
just to keep up with the lecture
but now with this unrhythmic   beat   beat          beat
I’m wishing I’d skipped the caffeinated treat.

You can't eradicate me,
Mr. President,
Just because you say I don't exist.

You can't speak me into nothingness
With words full of bigotry and lies.

I'm still here,
Mr. President,
We're all still here.

Even if it isn't safe for some of us to be ourselves openly,
Even if some of us haven't found ourselves yet,
Even if some of us are 6 feet under because of the people who believe in your definition of an American -
One that excludes anyone you don't understand,
Anyone that challenges your beliefs,
Anyone remotely different from you -

We're still here.
We're still here.

As if it was just feeling "sad".
No.

Its a beast of shadows and darkness that consumes you from the inside.
Its being hollow, devoid of self and everything human.
It's a violent ocean who's waves crashes against your ribs.
It's a pain that infects your core and spreads to the very tips of your fingers.
It's the heaviest nothingness.

It hurt hurts hurts hurts hurts hurts
so ******* much.

I just want it to stop.

Not only your beloved persons or unrequiteds,

But that kid that always sits across the cafeteria with their head buried in their sketchbook.
That old man flipping through the contents of the half-abandoned little library.
The boy resisting the leer of sleep as he nods of on the bus,
And the lady that walks her dog as the sun meets the horizon.

Remember to love long hot showers,
The moments of serenity between wake and sleep.
Dancing with young children,
or listening to their plotless stories.
The last period of an essay.
Late nights writing poetry.

Most importantly,
Remember to love
yourself.

I know that I'm alive,
I can feel the rise and fall
and beating beneath my chest.
I see the cloud of air with every expel of breath into the frigid air.

But this freezing cold is finding its way inside and flows through my veins causing me to shiver.
My warmth is stolen along with my liveliness and I am left as a shell of what I once was.
Left as this alive emptiness, like a ghost without a soul.

I know that I am alive
and, just the same,
know that I am not living.

I simply drift about your world aimlessly,
with this useless heart, body, lungs
mind
That keep me alive against the world's better judgement.

Find me a purpose
Find me a soul
Find me a life
So that I could live.

"Quel jour de la semaine aimes-tu le mieux?"
It says on the french homework.

Well, lets see...

Lundi is terrible, first day of the week.
Mardi is subpar, practically a repeat of the first.
Mereredi theres too much too do, between clubs and homework.
Jeudi is too long, and my guitar teacher's chance to remind me little practice I put into the guitar, and everything else that doesn't matter enough to me.
Vendredi is the end, but not quite the start of anything good, since
Samedi is filled with homework and more lessons and such that eat away at me until I'm nothing more but a husk of myself.
Dimanche is when I'm forced to meet my sins in the face while trying to not let them show on my face because I cant let anyone know of these "inner battles" I'm facing.

So, which day of the week do I like the most?
"Aunun.
Je déteste tous les jours,
mois,
année.
...
Je déteste ma vie."