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.

How do you expect a child to do so much?

They're tired, can't you see?
Tired from doing so much,
And that "much" being nothing worthwhile
Doesn't make it any less tiring.

They're tired,
Lift them up into your arms
Where it is safe and warm,
For the weight of their own body is too heavy to bear.

They're so tired,
So lay them in bed and tuck them under a blanket
Of a thousand promises to always be there for them, never let them hurt, to always love them.

They're tired,
Just read them a bedtime story about silly little talking animals
That sometimes have troubles,
But always work it out in the end.

They're tired,
Let them have their little interminable nap,

Because they're tired.
And they deserve to rest.

i am screaming
screaming out to you

why can't you hear me?
just listen.

you say you can't hear me
because i am screaming in silence

and i cant expect people to hear me
if i'm not saying anything at all.

how is it that, inside me
its so **** loud,

and yet i can't manage to get it outside.
i can't get people to hear.

i guess its sad if people are so limited by their senses
while i am able to experience all the infinite forms of communication.

or, maybe its sad for me.
because even if i can communicate in all these infinite ways,

it makes it hard to find the one in which
they can hear me

screaming
in silence.

No, oh no
Don't let me get like this again...

You tell me I'm getting "bigger," "fatter"
And point out how the clothes from when I was a preteen barely fit anymore.
And ask me if I'm really going to eat "all that"

Well, I guess not,
I guess I'll just
Serve myself less
and less

And maybe I'll keep track of what I'll eat--
Yes, I'll count the exact amount of calories that I need
And measure out how much I eat.

And then-
At the gym,
I'll push myself so hard,
Until I can't think straight,
and it just hurts,
and I can't breathe,
and I can't think straight,
and I begin to see stars float around (oh, aren't they beautiful?).

And then-
Once I eat too much, or even if I ate just enough, or too little--
If I ate at all,
Then I'll kneel over the toilet
And purge out my mistakes.

Yes, that's exactly what I'll do.

...

You say that I'm getting worse again,
That I'm beautiful,
That I have no reason to be doing this
That I'm selfish for doing this.

...Oh?
But aren't you the one that served me less,
And put me on the scale and turned that number into the new calorie deficit,
And took me to the gym to slim down until I was nothing more than skin and bones,
And forced me to kneel in front of the toilet,
The same way I would at the church pew,
Held my hair back,
Forced my fingers down my throat to activate the reflex that barely works anymore,
And made me purge out all of myself and flush it down?

No?
Oh.
Well, whatever,
Never mind.

Will you miss me
when I'm gone?

Or will you find me still
in the brisk breeze
the pauses in biology class,
at the lunch table,
the near-empty libraries,
on the children's swings,
the tree branches,
and feel lighter as you realize that I had never left?

Or will that only make my absense heavier,
a grief impossible to escape with so many reminders.

Or will you not care,
and make a fool of me thinking that you'd miss me.

you blame your past self
say you were so **** stupid...
but they're just a kid.

It jingles,
one of those that are meant to go on lanyards but had ended up on my backpack as most things that aren't meant to be there do (see: tamagotchi, clothing button, safety pin…)

But it fits perfectly, I think, along all the rest
A sparkly blue image of a bottle with colorful flowers and smiles as the pills, and a prescription of
"Take your meds! :)"

Now, I don't need the reminder, seeing that I don't administer medication to myself (as if that'd stop me from collecting the white tablets the same way I collect jewelry boxes and bottle caps),
but there was hope that it would be useful to another prescription-riddled fellow.

A friend turns out to be one of these fellows,
but they're more amused by the shiny blue bottle and its implications than its intention.

"What do you take?" they ask.

I think about how invasive this question is, but I can't just reject it - its in good nature and I wouldn't want to be rude. But I had a pretty nice clean slate at the school, not one mental freak-out to taint my image yet.

And so, I try to avoid the question, but they persist.
And so, I say, "Escitalopram, 5 mg" because its too hard to utter that part of me that I keep so deep inside,
that seems to want to drag me with it,
deep deep inside myself.

They don't take the answer, asking what it's for.
I hesitate from internal panic before submitting.
"Depression, and anxiety," I say, as it were as much as a joke as I am.

"Oh," and then they look at me with that all too familiar look.
That look that questions how could someone so bubbly and loud and blissfully unaware of the wider world hold that kind of darkness within them.

I laugh at my joke,
at my pitiful self,
and continue on with self-deprecating ramblings.

"Did you hear about that specialized school that got a dog for the students because suicide rates were so high?"
"What? That's totally not fair."
"Maybe a few of us just have to sacrifice ourselves to convince them to get us one"

My poetry is the result of an influx of thoughts.

My head can't hold them all,
So they spill out onto paper and soak and stain,
Leaving these tangled strings of words.

I try to arrange them to something comprehensive
But it's mostly an indecipherable nonsense.
I suppose thats what makes it poetry.

At least, it makes the mess in my brain
Just a bit more tangible.

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?

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.

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.

I can't
I can't
I can't
I can't do this
Its too much
Its too
much.
It's
too
much.

I can't think -
I'm forced to think, to think think think about it
All at once
Not at all
I can't -
I don't know
Do you?
Do you know what this is
supposed to be?
Is?
What is -
the meaning
of
everything
nothing
me?

I'm just so
everything
all at once
My mind is broken up into its smallest fragments
scrambling to get it all done,
all in this frantic insane mess, and yet
its so unclear to you
how unable I am.

I'm sorry
I'm sorry
I'm sorry I'msorryI'msorry -
I'msorryIcouldn'tbeeverythingyouwantedmetobe,
I'msorrythatIdidn'­ttryhardenough
I'msorrythatIforgothowtodream
I'msorrythatI'mjusta­kid
I'msorry
I'm sorry.
I'm
Sorry.

I just can't.

Why do I not want to tell them?

...

The last time I told them about something that was so important to me was when I came out to them as nonbinary.
I thought they were at least slightly accepting, she had had a gay friend after all, and they had never shown any obvious transphobia.
(Its funny how, after I came out, the bigotry became a lot more prevalent).

And so, I went to my grandma's kitchen, sat on the floor, in a corner, and typed out
"I am nonbinary"
in our group chat.
My thumb hovered over send for what seemed like an eternity
until, finally,
I pressed send.
And then I started to cry.

They had texted back "okay" and "what does that mean" but I didn't respond. I couldn't respond.
When she picked me up a few hours later, we talked.
Well, she talked.

She told me how I'm just confused
and how theres only two genders giving me some ****** up biology lesson about it, using the terms "gender" and "***" interchangeably.
and how society had just manipulating me to be this way
and how it was a sin against God
and how I don't get a choice in this
and how I'm a
beautiful girl
and I didn't have to be insecure about it.

I was
broken
by these words.
I cried that night.
I cried
           and cried
because I realized that
they would never accept me.
They would never love me.

I think I
                attempted
to
                                  ­              **** myself
that night.

I don't remember, exactly
There were so many attempts that I just
can't remember
anymore.

...

Why do I not want to tell them?

Because
I'm scared.
I don't want to be ridiculed and criticized.
I don't want to break my own heart again.
I don't want to be rejected again.
I don't trust them anymore.

I don't want to tell them, because they lost my
trust.

Unfinished poems
Wandering bits in my mind
Waiting to be

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.

Reach past barriers
Fingertips press like a tender kiss
Or like your body when it melts into the ocean.

Inpatient
Crashing
Straining
And never enough.

Listen
While I cry to you all the wrong of the world.

Hold me
While you whisper to me all of her beauty.

Hate swallowing pills.
Reminds me of memories
I rather forget.

If feels like giving in,
Like all the progress was for nothing.

Nothing.
At least this makes me feel something,
Even if that something is nothing more than a dull burn beneath my lemon-orange socks.

I don't know why I do it.
Why I try.
Why I cry every time,
Why I can't just ******* ---
...

Mama and papi
Fighting over whose paying the mortgage.

Gotta spend less on vacations,
Outings,
Birthdays,
Treats,
Heat,
Groceries.

Guilt
Gu­ilt
Guilt.

Mama and papi
Fighting over how they're splitting bills.

Saying he pays too much,
Saying that he can handle it.
Saying she gets anxious,
Saying how he's in pain.

Guilt
Guilt
Guilt.

Why do thwy do this anyway?
Asking, asking,
Why they'd sacrifice so much?

For you.
Yeah, for you.
You ungrateful waste of space, time, money.

Guilt
Guilt
Guilt.

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.

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.

The winter breeze comes to rob the trees of their leaves.
With those leaves flows her light linen layer.
The shawl isn’t nearly enough to combat the cold,
So why would he be?

She shivers, the air’s frigidity insulting her sleek bronze surface.
“Let me hold you,” he says, “you’re so beautiful.”
Her eyes downcast and her knees pinch.

“Look at those beautiful eyes,” he says,
“Why don’t you will them to look into mine?”

She lifts them, heavy, and absently meets his.
Her lashes are frosted white.
The hypothermia wouldn’t take long to take her.

Her mind pleads, help, help, help,
But her thoughts seem to be freezing slowly at the same rate as her body.
Her lips tremble and crack as she separates them.

“Look at those beautiful lips,” he says, “Come here and let them meet mine”
She tightens the shawl to her skin, but it’s already lost all sense.
She’s already losing all sense.

“Don’t be ashamed,” he says, “you’re so beautiful.”

Her arms tense, but the light fabric seems fleeting from them.
Her light mind,
Fleeting from her…

His arms open,
“Come here, beautiful, why don’t you see?”

She whimpers, shakily, a plea:
“please.”

She crumples into his arms.

“You’re so beautiful, why don’t you see?”
“I don’t want to be beautiful,” she says,

She falls right through.
He was never there.

“I want to be alive.”

Every
Birthday candle
Angel hour
Fountain coin
Church prayer
Dandelion blow

I wish for the same thing.
I'm still waiting for my wish to come true.

The emptiness aches,

Only interupted with the waves of pure hurt.

You say I'm being dramatic.

But you don't know these aches of hopelessness.

The loaded weight keeping me from progressing.

The loneliness that is most prevalent when surrounded.

You don't know what is

to drown within yourself

submerged in hurt

that stings eyes when looking for hope

and makes those close sound so far away

and sinks you further and further

into its bottomless pit.