So scared
With unfounded fears
Filling me
I don't want to **** myself
So win back myself
My future for my greed
Focus full force
I need all 18 holes
On this golf course

I know you think
I’m counting down the days
But I’m just trying to make
The days count.

People tell me
45 is so young,
Why would I want to believe
I’ll be gone by then?

I say
It has taken me 18 years
To get where I am.

I’m afraid
Of what will happen
After 18 more.

Vendredi 18, tu es venue à l'école avec une attitude différente.
Tu es en train de te perdre et d'oublier ton aptitude affriolante.
Tu es tombé d'une altitude qui était autrefois inspirante.
Tu l'as fait quasiment indifférente,
que tu nous as convaincu que ce n'est qu'une exception intermittente,
que ce n'est qu'une soudaine changement d'humeur déprimante.

Friday 18th, you came to school with a different attitude.
You were getting lost, forgetting what you are made of, forgetting your aptitude.
You have fallen from what once was an inspiring altitude.
You did it so calmly, so indifferently, that you have convinced us that it was just a temporary phase.
Just a passing malaise.

My wildest fantasy is to cut my tongue out
Just to feel the pleasure that pain gives
And watch as my blood pour out of my mouth
As it runs down my neck and slips onto my tank-top to paint a perfect portrait

On regular days I wished
To lose a leg or two
Maybe break a few bones, throw in some toes
Just to see how I would look

Other days I wanted to go MIA
Leaving only bloodstains on my silk sheets
With an ax and suicide note, of course, to throw the Cops off
Just to write about it in my dairy

On sad days I wished I was robbed
Or attacked by a good looking stranger
Hit by a car, cow or something
Just to be notice

It's usually fun to have conversations with dead bodies
They listen well
It's even more fun turning them into antique furniture
Especially the teeth it gives zing to the ring

People say I’m crazy
Do you think I’m crazy?
Hehe…
No, I’m not

I’m a Sociopath there’s a difference!

in ninth grade i came to school
everyday
with cigarette smoke
embedded in my clothes
i wanted so badly for
someone, anyone
to ask why i smelled like
a cancer ward.

i would write poetry
about how much i hated myself
thinking it would mean
anything to anybody
all the sharp parts of
my body condensed
into shot glasses
overflowing and draining at the same time
the chipped parts leaking *****
onto my bedroom floor
that i'm afraid
my mom will smell

when i was a preteen
i promised myself,
a pact only i can legitimize,
that if i wasn't happy by 18
i would **** myself.
i am a breath away from that
moment
within arm's reach of the
edge of something--
whether it's a
swimming pool's side
or a cliff's face
is up to me i guess.

here's the thing no one
told me about life:
nobody notices your pain
no matter how much you want
them to,
and if they do
they do it wrong.
you won't be able to find
the words in the
moment they ask.
you'll freeze up
and your only language will be
cigarettes
blood stains
and a faint smell of *****.
it will seem romantic at the time
but it is really, really not.

all it does is hurt and hurt
and hurt and hurt.
you will be scared when
she notices the blood
on your thighs/hands/heart
and the black in your
lungs/soul
and you will cry. it will hurt.

but hey,
so does everything else.

and if there's
anything i've learned
by now, at the
precipice of 18,
it's that
cigarette smoke,
the blood and *****,
the black;
it all comes out in the wash.

18 crept in with the quiet illusion of comfort

in the flakes of snow outside Gloria Jean's

on a Sunday afternoon, sipping something

warm and letting the cold seep into my skin

only to burrow myself into a warm blanket

afterwards. 18, upon arrival, was gifted

with gorgeousness writ by a favorite friend.

However, 18 came quietly, the world

defining her before she could have spoken to

me herself. 18 began to hurt, trying to find

what she was born to be rather than what

she was being molded into. 18, like snow,

was fragile. 18 had been January, and

then just as fast, she is March. 18 is script-

writing with Mahnoor again, just like 15,

16, 17, familiarity. 18 is confusion and

panic, a growing sense of unease,

muffling a voice in my head trying its

hardest to be heard. Upon seeing April, 18

did not desire this trip anymore. But the

Spring brought whispers of vanilla and a boy

with the softest smile in a place of pain. 18

was running off to corners of life, trying to

escape the stench of dying that had taken to

following her around. 18 survived May, 18

survived June. 18 fell into July, a house

of gloom, and decided to settle in the

month, if only the month would settle for

18. The world was calling her, but she

would not be seen. 18 ran back to the long-

awaited cold, overcome with joy for the

numbered days, a birthday again, a

bittersweet break, an ache for escape.

But 18 walked away from July, and

found herself in August, quite by surprise.

And August, she realizes, can be

anything she likes.

I turn 18 in a month
I hear people say they feel the same
As if there wasn't a shift
But I can feel and see the shift
I am no longer a shy little girl
I am becoming a confident woman
No longer caged by my insecurities
I have spent up till now transforming
I have learned the weight of responsibility
The responsibilities of truths, lies, and secrets
The difference between consequences
for now and for the future

No, I don't feel like a child anymore
I don't yet feel like an adult,
but I feel like this is my first step
into real life