If you can not handle my sharp tongue, you do not deserve my breath.
If my emotions are too much for you, how do you expect to understand how I love.
If my body does not fit your fantasy, you will never be my dream.
If my drive and ambition bothers you, my future will surpass you,
What you see as flaws is what I consider my strengths.

Whelp.
Once again, this ******* ****** up.
I tried to help her, but I just made everything a million times worse.

I ended up leaving her sobbing there.
How can I ever come back from that?
She probably hates me.
It's justified.
It'll take some time before I can forgive myself for being a ******* waste of space.

I recently looked at pictures of me.
*******, I'm ******* ugly as ****.
Mirrors don't bother me, it's pictures that do.
All that ******* disgusting acne.

Such a fat, pudgy face.
No discernable cheekbones.
It makes me want to take a knife and sculpt my own face.

I told myself I'd wait until after my birthday.
I don't want Christmas associated with death.
I always tell myself to wait.
Why?

Maybe I hope that by then, I'd forget all this **** inside my head.
It's never worked.
It never will work.
There's nothing, nothing will stop these thoughts.

I write these as a way to cope, but it doesn't work.
I wash my face twice every day to make myself look presentable, but it doesn't work.
My mom is taking immunotherapy for her cancer, but it won't cure her.

Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing
Nothing
Nothing­
Nothing.

A mole on my arm has been hurting and getting darker each passing year.
I know what it is.
I know I'll die from it one day.
I can't control that.
It's a gene mutation, after all.
I might be medicated for that in the future, but it won't work.
Nothing will.

I could tell my friends what it is.
But they'd cry.
It's best to have them happy about a different way of death than to cry over a gene mutation.

She thinks she'd be sad if I left.
Lies.
I know she hates me.
I don't know why she talks to me and pretends to be a friend to me.

Maybe it's pity.
Another "friend" already told me that I was a pity friend to them.
So, I'm not surprised if she feels the same.
It makes things easier for me.

I seem troubled here, and she talks to her friend, having fun.
It's nice.
I don't necessarily have a closest friend.

My closest friend and I are becoming distant.
It *****.
I wish I could text her more.
Which I can, but it's something about me.

I'm terrible at maintaining only online friendships.
That's how one of my close friends and I don't talk anymore.
That was my own doing.

I sit and don't do much of anything.
I don't really draw anymore either.
It's not fun anymore.
Every time I draw, I just see the flaws.

Nothing is good enough and it never will be.
I don't know why I try.
I'm not good at anything.
I'm not good for anything.

hiding myself
in oversized shirts
not letting any
defect get out

my mistakes
rumbling down
to edges
wanting to get out

imperfections
glued into my
clothes wanting
to stick out

they are hidden
for a long time
but now i am
ready to wear
tank tops
and short shorts
bikinis and or
dresses

i am bare
i am naked
and
i am proud

I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry for everything I've said, or done, for everything I said id do but didn't, and all the stress I've put on you. I'm sorry I'm like this, forgetful, naive, short tempered. I'm sorry I never said what I really wanted to say, and what I really felt. I'm sorry for letting my emotions get the best of me and I'm sorry I said all those things to you. I'm sorry for who I am, as a person, as a daughter, as a friend. I'm sorry for being me, I'm sorry for being human, for having flaws and for having my pride. I'm sorry, I'm really really sorry. I'm sorry and I hope you'd still want me even after everything.
I know, deep inside me, that I don't deserve your forgiveness, that I don't deserve your faith, and kindness, and love. I know that I don't deserve anything good anybody would give me, because of how I am, and how I act. I know, that even if I change and repent, there will always be a part of you who would doubt, and suspect. I know that even if I spend the rest of my life trying to better myself, I would never deserve anything good, I would never get what I really need; your love. and I know even if you say I have it, that I don't, because **** like me don't have an ounce of love to give, and a bottomless pit to fill.
But still, I write this to you. I write this for myself, in an attempt to change, to repent and turn, still I write this, with no intention of ever giving it to you, with no intention of ever letting anybody's eyes aside from mine read this. I am human, filled with flaws and pride and I refuse to appear weak. I am human, and I love you. I am human, and I know I will never deserve you.

I read of this little orchestra of players
who made instruments of trash
reminded me how God uses strayers
like Moses, David, and Johnny Cash
recycled their failures into glory.
They found a flash or flicker
of faith to make a moving story.
They gave their flaws to the Fixer.

I see the detritus and lessons of my past
a guy whose mind was all over the place
who soared, swooped, leveled and crashed
was thrown out reaching for second base
whose heart was wounded, erratic and hurt
but had a treasury of teachers on his path
who inspired and encouraged the introvert
to use words instead of physics or math.

Yes, words became my friends
opened vistas of meaning and learning
paid limitless dividends
set my curiosity and wonder burning.
Fragments of imagination
bubbled up like a spring
moments of ****** inspiration
of darkness and light took wing.

The salve of poetry has brought healing
its warm oils and sweet scent
delivered me from darker feelings
gave me vigor when I was spent
gave me drink in the dessert
brought me moments of glory
in a world of hurt
helped me tell my story.

So like those Paraguay players
making music from trash
from all of life’s layers
of flowers and ash
I’ve been to the mountain peak
and to fertile green places
in my true voice I now speak
and swim in glorious graces.

What was it about that moment that made him love you less?
Was it that you needed him, and he was supposed to be the one needing you?
Was it the use of it? That you didn’t share, simply asked of him?
Was it the failure?
Or was it just that before you were unmarred, unblemished,
An unreality?
And then all at once you were just like everyone else.
What was it that made him love you less?

You know no one is perfect
Why do you expect yourself to be?
Have flaws but so does everyone else
Within your heart resides true beauty

Lost amongst ridiculing words
Each step of a plan to be better
Fight to show you it can be done
Tough love coating every letter

And it is one blunder after another
Hope that you find strength
Continue on when it's the hardest
When the night too long in length

Beautiful what you are to me
Do not let your fears manifest
Focus on positive traits
Forgive yourself for all the rest