Apologetic

I didn't ask for a lobotomy, just a place to rest my thoughts. It's not fair because I don't want everyone taking a peek into my mind. I don't want everyone dissecting me and my brain and my words. I feel like I have to prove something to you and I don't know how to please you without breaking myself. I feel exposed and vulnerable. Sure every body's greedy for a secret, but that doesn't mean it has to be mine. I feel as though someone is applying a thousand pounds of pressure to my head. I think that crying might help but the only thing I can do is wring my hands and pace and pray that it'll all turn out okay. Sure, there are a million things I could say right now, but I don't think anything will slow the pace of the words rushing through my head. All I wanted was to be free and now I think I'm trapped all over again. I just want to leave so badly, and start over in a place where skyscrapers mar the horizon. I want to fall in love and write my heart out. But most of all I want to do all these things without being judged for it. And I feel like you've got your hawk eyes locked on me and for every genuine sentence that pours out of my fingertips you'll be there, deciding the final verdict. I'm not quite sure what I'm saying anymore and I feel like whatever talent I had is quickly fading. Because my thoughts are nothing but somber and lonely. They can no longer be turned into romantic, beautiful lies that sound nice when read aloud. Now all I can sum up is that I just want to disappear and never be found. I don't want to die, but I don't want to be alive.

Heavy-Eyed

For some reason, my love for self-hatred has bloomed into a craving of rebellion. I think I'm going insane because the space between my ears has suddenly become too small. I feel as though I'm drifting away from it all, like a dingy cast out to sea. I can't even control myself anymore. Anxiety attacks seem to like to rock me to sleep. The dreams of big city lights reflect in my eyes and trick everyone else into thinking that I don't care. But I do. I care so desperately, I'm just waiting for someone to care back. I'm waiting for someone to notice the pain in my eyes. I'm waiting for someone to give a damn. Because here I am, right in front of you all, and you're so blind that you can't even realize that it's all crumbling. It's all withering away. I hope I'm another cliche just to get my name in the books. I'm going to live until I die. I've been yearning for sweet blades to kiss my wrists, but I'm too much a coward to figure out if I'll fall in love. Too much of a disappointment. Lately it's been rough. Lately all I want is for someone to tell me that it'll be alright. But maybe it's a bad thing when people notice. Because once someone did. They asked me if I was okay, and I said yes and then they went on to say, "You're just tired right? Yeah, I'm good at reading people." But I'm not just tired. I'm tired of life, tired of everything being eternally the same. So maybe people should learn to read the fine print. Try reading in between the lines for once. They ask if you're tired, but the never ask of what.

Snap

"You're so thin, you look like you'd just snap," they say to me. But what these devastatingly arrogant souls don't understand is that I already have. I snapped at the moment I had to swallow my dignity, and choke back the tears. Their words snapped my legs and society snapped my neck. Now I just dangle here like a broken doll. I snapped the day I looked into his eyes and knew that he would never love me. I snapped when my heart was broken by the biggest player of them all; life. I snapped when I was eight years old and had been abruptly uprooted from the only thing I'd ever known. I fucking snapped the moment I realized that I had stopped loving myself, and just stopped loving all together. Maybe that's why I grew up so fast. Because everything I'd ever believed in just crumbled in the wind and I had been left to pick up the pieces. I have had my happy weeks, but this isn't one of them. I sure hope that the next time I'm told to stand with my legs together, that I hear applause. Because that's all I seem to be. A circus show freak. I hope that you're surely amused with the space between my thighs and I hope you find it funny that my hipbones jut out. I didn't choose this body and trust me if I had I would have made a much better choice. I wouldn't have chose to live my life out in a body that looks like it could snap. I didn't choose the comments about my weight or the words about my legs. I wonder if they know that every time I look in a mirror, I hear their voices calling my "anorexic", "too thin", and "fragile." Their voices haunt me. I hope one day, when I leave, my words will haunt them too.

I'm Just Alone Again

I think the worst part is that I let myself feel vulnerable. I let my heart feel exposed and I let its contents splay across the floor. I let my blood pump faster and my pulse quicken. I let myself go. I let someone in for just a little bit and I regret every second. Because look where I am now. I've got nothing left. I'm laying here exposed in the corner shivering and wishing I'd just kept my eyes on the floor. Wishing I'd kept the door to my heart locked. Every single day I look at him and just wish that I'd even have a chance. But then I remember; nobody wants me. That's why I'm standing on my own. I'm not the kind of pretty that people fall in love with. No matter how many times you call me beautiful, at the end of the day I'll still be alone and crying into my pillow case. The pain will come back swinging with full force and I'll be reminded why he didn't want me. Why he never will.

Twisted Thoughts

These days as the leaves begin falling, I'm starting to become stuck. Stuck between who I should be, who I am, and who I want to be. I can't look in a mirror anymore, without a chorus of malicious voices reminding me of my every flaw. My yearning to leave this place has grown to a level where it's almost unbearable. Because I was right. Now I'm stuck in a school with the same type of people I grew up with. I have no hope. In the hallway a cursory glance can turn into a longing stare. But I stared too long, and you saw the way my eyes lit up. You saw every vulnerability, every ounce of the person I've been trying so hard to conceal. I can't wait for the day that the world stops revolving around Homecoming and football games. Because lonely people need to breathe too and lately I've been suffocating. There's no air between the state of numbness and the state of freedom, yet I'm trapped exactly in the middle. But they don't get it, neither do you. How can we be on the "same boat", if we're not even sailing in the same sea? Your very being emanates glory. And you still expect me to believe that we're even in the same league? I can't even teach myself how to love, and you're out there crying the tears of young romance. Just tell me, exactly, what makes us so similar? Because everyday I look at you and wish I could be the way you are. With your purposefully delivered sentences and eloquent tongue. You're beautiful in every sense of the word. I am nothing but an outspoken girl with eternally chipped nail polish and grasping for the definition of l o v e. Hope is a four letter word and I'm tired of cussing. I'm just tired, tired, tired of everyday wishing for reprieve. Wishing for something greater than myself. But I'm just a stargazer, while everyone else is walking on the moon.

It's a Full Moon in My Mind

All I could hear was our footsteps on the ground and the crickets serenading us with their now seemingly melancholy chirps. And the sniffles. The constant sniffles of the mourners with their black shawled eyelids and red-rimmed noses. Because death screwed us over. It overlapped us. It overlaps fear, it overlaps happiness. Death overlaps everything that has been or will be. Death turns us into the people we thought we'd never see again. Suddenly that quiet girl that nobody thought much of was the "most beautiful girl who was always kind to everyone, and deserved to live a happy life." Death gives its victims attention, a quiet type of fame. So maybe that's why some people cop out early; to get the attention they could never receive if living.
So perhaps that's why I haven't abandoned the ship yet. Because although I fear no one will care, I know everybody will, and they'll care far too much. People who I've said maybe one word to my entire life will suddenly be giving speeches about my great personality and my stunning soul. The girl who trash mouthed me the other day would claim that she wanted me back and wished that I'd stayed so that we could grow closer. I would rather go unremembered than have people I don't even know pretend as though they care. Pretend that they knew who I was, and how I felt, and what I thought. Because nobody really knows me. Sure my friends know a big part of me, but only the part that I let them see. Nobody has seen the dark side of my moon. Nobody should even dare to go to such a godforsaken place, because they'd come out with something plaguing them that's worse than death. They'd come out of my darkness knowing all the thoughts that swirl in my head. And I would never wish that dreadful fate upon anybody.

Star-Crossed Mourner

If you asked me why I'm sad, I'd ask you why I shouldn't be. Then I'd go on to explain that sad isn't really correct terminology. I'm more of unsad, yet still unhappy. Because I don't know who I am. All I know is that I never seem to get it right. I can never seem to please you. And I think that no matter how hard I try, this feeling will never go away. Actually more like unfeeling. Because I would give anything for my heart to beat again. Feel again. For my lungs to chug and chug, sending the dust flying. I'd give anything to be whole again. I'm that fucking jigsaw with the mysteriously missing piece. The puzzle that no one ever bothered to finish. I'm a mess. My completing part got sucked up in the vacuum or is hidden between couch cushions. But no one cares enough to find it. I'm nothing. I am a cold shoulder that turned into a snowy mountain top. A goodbye licked by frost. The last "I love you," frozen over. I'm unsad, yet still unhappy. But don't worry, no one will ever ask me why I'm sad, so I'll never have to tell.

Weeds

I let myself go. And now look what I've done. I let my heart beat and I let myself fall and now I've reached the bottom and I've shattered. There was no one there to catch me. I felt stupid, utterly so because I actually convinced myself that I'd have a chance this time. But who am I kidding? There's always going to be someone prettier. Someone kinder. Someone more charming. Someone better. Someone who could give him more reasons to love them, than I ever could. I felt the noose loosen, giving me a little space to breathe. To get my heart functioning again. I tried to let myself and my love go, but in the end, the voices will always grow too loud. So loud that nothing can be heard not my tears or my screams. I feel the callouses growing on my heart. Preventing it from feeling anything at all. Because all that boys seem to want is the easy girl. Not the complicated girl who cries herself to sleep and paints feelings into words. The one who has shed too many tears. The one who just wants to be loved so desperately. No. Not the girl who plays with her hair and bites her lip and clenches her fists when she gets too anxious. They will never love me because they will always have a better option. People say that they're just a dandelion while others are roses. Some people say that it's better to be a dandelion. It's not. Because I am one and nobody wants a fucking dandelion. Nobody gives a stupid weed to their lover. Nobody wants me. Maybe it's good to have those thorns, that gives people something to fight for. Me, I'm just open for the taking. But, people bring home bouquets of roses not little, ugly, yellow, worthless dandelions. No matter how many crowns are made out of us, they are always discarded. No matter how beautiful people make us out to be, we always wilt in the end. But now I'm turning gray. My yellow is fading and I'm dying. I've become a shell of my former self. Maybe one day I will make a child's wish come true. And when I make theirs come true, they'll grant my wish. They'll blow me away, sending me far from here. They'll huff and puff until I've become utter nothingness.

Neon Tears

Tonight was a night of blurred faces and strobe lights. The curves of bodies all becoming the same. And standing there, as the bass thumped in my chest and the lights flashed on my face, I couldn't help but feel out of place. There I am, in a sea of faces and a hoard of bodies, but I can't help but feel totally alone. I can't help but wonder how many people feel the same. Because if this is all there is to it, I'm done for. I can barely imagine next week passing, let alone another four years with these people. As I stood there and watched a boy who was standing all alone looking at the clock, waiting for the whole ordeal to be over, my eyes welled with tears. Because I know that he will be looking at that clock for a lot longer than the duration of one dance. He'll be waiting for these years to pass, glancing at the analog on the wall patiently. I know not all of them are like this, maybe their good inside. But we sure aren't the wonderful people we make ourselves out to be. You're not different. In the grand scheme of things you're all unconditionally the same. But like I said, I always get my hopes up. This time I thought, maybe just maybe, I wouldn't be disappointed. Boy, was I wrong.

Coke and Rum

I think I need to fall in love. Because I'm scared that if I don't, my old, rusty heart will crumble. That I'll stop feeling all together. Because the noose is now too tight and I don't think that I'll survive much longer. Or maybe my heart won't crumble, maybe it'll get an upgrade. I'll become a robot. Where feeling is an option but love isn't. Maybe my ideas of romance are a bit far fetched. Because I just want someone who genuinely likes me and I'm not sure that's possible nowadays. I'm not sure what there is to love, besides a shell of myself, but I want someone who can learn to love that. I want someone who can learn to love my dark, twisted mind and my shallow words. Who can learn to love my sad, longing eyes and my selfless touch. I know I'm not anything great, I know I'm not special. I'm not a diamond, not even in the rough. I've tried to fix my heart, but every time I pick up a piece I earn a new scar. I tried so hard, but I ended up with bloody hands and tears rolling down my cheeks. I ended up mending my heart only to have it shatter again. I'm terrified to fall in love because I have always been responsible for breaking my own heart. I'm scared to give that responsibility to someone else. No, I've never felt that kind of love. That electricity or heat in ones touch. I crave it so badly, like an alcoholic craves liquor. But I never even got a fucking taste.

Grab the Gardening Tools

I don't understand. Why do you think it's necessary to be thin? I can assure you, that it's not all it's cracked up to be. It won't make you happier, or smarter, or more confident. I don't understand why people think that if they loose a few pounds, they'll loose the voices in their heads. I have voices, they scream the ugliest things. Beauty is not in the inches between thighs, or the dips of collarbones, or the points of hipbones. I have all of it and I'm still mangled beyond repair. I'm telling you this because one day I told someone that I hated my life. She replied saying something like, "You have a thigh gap, your life seems fine." That hit me like a slap in the face. Who was she to have the nerve to judge my life based off a space between my thighs?!? And that's the sad part; people can't look past their conceptions of beauty fast enough to realize that the person behind the "beautiful" is really fucked up inside. And I'm just a skeleton, filled with enough fake compliments to last me a life time. If your body is a garden, then mine was left untended. Because there are weeds growing in my rib cage. Moss growing on my lips. Moths chewing at my feet. Flowers wilting in my eyes. Thorns roping around my heart. And daisies laid around my gravestone. Because they all thought I was beautiful, they just never thought to tell me. But maybe it's just a side effect of dying, because when the thoughts of hate swirled in my head they kept their lips sealed. Now they're all crying my name, while reading the note, claiming that they knew I was gorgeous all along, yet in their minds the only memory they share with me is a small tumble of words. But maybe not. Maybe they think of me as the stick-thin girl who always stayed quiet and was never brave enough or pretty enough to be remembered. Because that's how I would remember myself. And it's funny because all the girls who want to be skinny like me are the total opposite. They have sunflower eyes, carnation voices, roses for hearts, baby breath skin, tulip petal lips, and flowerbed souls. They have had people there tending their garden, making sure everything is okay. Other people can see all of these beautiful things about them, but they can't. But me, there is nothing beautiful to see.

Pyrotechnics

Oh god. Here we go again, throwing ourselves into that canyon of expired coupons and pretentious snobs. I have been dreading tomorrow for a whole season. A season filled with something's, someone's, and somewhere's that have genuinely helped me forget my worries. But only for a little while. Now anticipation is knocking at my door and leaving gifts at the doorstep. And anxiety is drumming her fingers close to my heart, causing my pulse to rise and my palms to sweat. And panic is rising in my throat, selfishly holding back my screams. This is my reality, my infinity. It's not beautifully tragic or tragically beautiful. It's not romantic or glorious. It's just sad. I know that our town is full of broken dreams and missed opportunities, and I know that this is where it all starts. It's like I dive into a pit of fire, every year. I keep swimming, the flames licking my belly and charring my feet, until I realize that its too hot. Then I jump out, dowse the blaze. I rest for a little bit and mend my wounds, while my memory of the swim fades. But then I see the pit and the inferno, and I forget about the past, and I jump right in again. And I know I still have those embers glowing inside of me. I just haven't found the courage to put them out.

Sealed the Deal

I'm anxiously awaiting the day that I formally become a high school student. The first day of school when I walk through the doors, and am immediately self-conscious and intimidated by the new crowd of the same people. The same type of people, more specifically. The type that walk around acting as though kissing the most guys will get them somewhere in life. The type that act dumb to get attention. The kind that act like they're the newest trend, even though they've never sipped an ounce of originality in their lifespan. You're not a rebel, you're fucking psychotic. I'm scared to see my friends turn into people I don't want to know. I'm scared for myself to turn into someone I don't want to be. But mostly, I'm scared that everything will be the same. The same group of lethal bitches waltzing around and serenading people in false compliments. The same boys snatching my heart in their dream catchers only to declare it a nightmare. The same girls gossiping, lying, hurting without even a second thought. I'm scared for this. And I'm sorry if I sound like a stuck up teenage girl, but I am a slight variation of a stuck up teenage girl. At least I've found a vaccine for their virus. At least I'm just a little immune. I'm also scared for them: they've sold their souls for a lifetime supply of Facebook likes and Abercrombie cardigans.

Cast Away

I could probably fill up an ocean with my tears. But I guess I already did. Because now I'm treading water and its so odd, because I feel like I should be drowning. I feel like I should be drowning but some how I manage to stay close to the surface. Except then every so often rip tides take over and I'm cast out to sea. And I'm all alone there, with nothing but a long, desolate, blue view and the sun burning my cheeks. Then I'll fall asleep and wake up where I started. And sometimes, the water gets rough and I get caught in a wave that's breaking. The wave knocks me over, pummeling me with its briny fists. Salt water searing my throat and my eyes. I can't see. I hit the sandy bottom hard and the grains scratch me and the rocks slam into me. My arms flail and my legs kick weakly. I want to drown at this point. It would be so painless compared to this. But no. I float back up and drift on the choppy ocean surface, battered and bruised. But I recover, and the cycle repeats. And every once in a blue moon I meander close to a shoreline. So close that I can see the boats and people milling about. I can see the ever so hopeful lighthouse signalling me in. And I try to swim to the shore, I try so hard. But the water keeps pulling me back. I kick and tug but the water won't let up. I wish I would sink, but I'm not an anchor. I'm a buoy, destined to a life of rough seas and endless storms, barely keeping afloat. 

1999-2013

I feel like I'm decaying. I've got maggots in my brain and worms in my heart. They're all telling me that this isn't going to last long. That soon enough I'll fade back into the shadows of my ridiculously perpetual routine. And I really have no doubt that this will happen soon. With the morning frost comes the frost on my heart. With the falling leaves comes the falling of my spirit. With the glistening snow comes the glistening tear drops, dripping into my ears. Maybe I am decaying. But here it won't matter; as long as the funeral is expensive and the flowers are fresh from Fiji. As long as the black mourners shawls are Marc Jacobs and the coffin is made of first class wood. As long as I'm dressed in billion dollar jewels. As long as I died luxuriously. I'm broken and bruised inside, but on the outside I'm just like them. Falling into line. Gushing over boys. Smacking on lip gloss. Bragging about my new phone. Trying to be like everyone else. I don't want this anymore. But I don't know how to break down a door without razing a whole house. We are so desperate to be our own person that we eventually drown in our own misconceptions. Maybe I am decaying. So go get your flower crowns. Act like you cared about me. Send me your last regards. But it's too late. I'm already six feet under.

Via Dolorosa

I wish I had the guts to fall in love. I'm scared to make the same mistake they did. "Easy to fall, easy to break," they say. So I never really let myself fall. I just hang here suspended by thin strings that were very close to breaking. Because I want someone to cradle me, I want someone to sing me lullabies. I'm in love with the idea of love, not with a person. My heart is hanging now by the noose of reality; who killed my hopes and has got me in a choke hold. I can't breath anymore. There's no more silly strings to keep me here suspended above you all. No. Just a thick noose, braided of gritty ropes that scratch at my throat. But I don't die, of course, because that would be too pleasant, too quick, too painless. Instead, I dangle here, slowly suffocating on my own insecurities. Slowly choking on my own flaws. I watch you all, frolicking below me with your hearts worn on your sleeves, like its the newest, trendiest accessory. I watch you all fall in love, I watch people fall in love with you. I watch your hearts break. And I laugh because, even though the sadness that follows heartbreak isn't very nice, it's better than this. Some of you are hanging up here with me, faces turning blue, hands clawing at your noose. Some of you try to scream, but your calls never make a sound and you end up gurgling and gasping, fingers prying violently at the rope. You act like there is a possibility of reprieve. I know there's not, I don't even try. And sometimes your ropes will snap, because you let someone into your heart again. And you'll fall back down, the air rushing around you, filling you with glee, your heart swelling, a bashful smile spreading across your face, blush rising in your cheeks, their image filling your head. Your thoughts are dizzy and buzzing. Once you land on those amorous plains of that existence, you can't walk straight or think straight you're so high on love. It's like a drug. There are addicts who always get their fill, but when they don't, they go through a nasty withdrawal. There are dealers who make big bucks on your misfortune and vulnerability. There are those people who try it once or twice, when they go through their reckless faze. But then there are people like me, who get a little taste and yearn for more. But no one would sell it to me. They didn't take me seriously, "You want someones love? Are you kidding?" So I removed myself from the equation completely. But most of us don't fall again, most of us aren't that lucky.

Vindication

We're growing up in a society of hardwired hearts. They're preset to only love the beautiful, and to worship the sexy. We're so controlled by what people expect, that we can't even truly fall in love anymore. We have an implanted image in our minds of who to love: Perfectly styled hair, toned body, collarbones, thigh gaps, big breasts, nice ass, abs, white smiles, blue eyes, plump lips. Sadly enough, I have never met one person with all of these qualities and I doubt I ever will. We have been taught to love the impossible. However, it's impossible to be taught how to love. We need to disable the ticking time bomb and release our selves from the iron grip of society. Because you'll never find someone that perfect, so stop setting your expectations so high. I don't mean to sound pugnacious, but I'm sick of running in circles in this labyrinth we call "affection". I'm sick of expecting a god to love a mortal. I'm sick of the taste of bitter remorse and heartache. I'm sick of setting myself up for failure. I always expect a universe and am disappointed when I get a galaxy. Galaxy of Tragedy: it all makes sense now, doesn't it?

Sycamores and Maples

Comparing myself to others is one of my major faults. I have a lot of flaws, most of which you've probably already read about. But this one's different, because it's something I have always done. It didn't just start when I was injected with a flavorful mixture of teen angst and hormones. It's a personality trait I suppose. And I know I shouldn't do it because everyone has something to be ashamed of. But that doesn't stop me. I can't stand in a room with another girl without looking her over, sizing her up, and then making myself feel terrible because she has something I don't. Maybe she just has nice eyes; it doesn't matter, because suddenly I'll hate my eyes and want hers. We're like trees. We're not all the same, we have different blossoms, different shaped leaves. There's a willow with her long, wispy branches and her delicate flowers. There's a birch with her beautiful, pale bark and her nice, green leaves. And then there's me an average tree. No one bothers remembering what type because there's nothing important to forget. I'm in a forest of magnificent trees with blooming and bursting with life. And then there's me a scraggly, skinny tree with lanky branches and withering leaves. I'm nothing compared to them. I want to be glorious like everyone else. However, I can't, it's really impossible. Because I'm just a plain old poplar and they're all blue jacarandas. But on the other hand I don't think I'd be able to handle being something so beautiful. Because everyone wants to be you and there's so much pressure to be perfect. When you're beautiful people pick your flowers off, carve their names into your trunk, and chop you down. They process you into floorboards and instruments. And then what are you? Just something for people to use and disregard. Something that no one really cares about, as long as you look good, right? You're not anything special anymore because you're just like everyone else. And then one day you break, your floorboard cracks and your instrument snaps. Then they'll just replace you. So maybe being a boring, old, durable tree isn't all that bad. I'm trustworthy, respectful, and you can always count on me. People won't bother chopping, picking, or carving me. Except for me. I chop my confidence. I pick apart my flaws. I carve away at my soul. I will be the death of me.

Salt Water Tears

Just tell me something that I want to hear
Because I want to fall in love again
After all this time, after all these years
When you do come back for me, tell me when

I have been waiting for my heart to heal
You're there in my dreams, rocking me to sleep
But I still don't understand how to feel
I am not a rock, I don't sink that deep

They claimed we were simply lost; misguided
Two teens, drunk on love, nothing harmful here
Smoke our past away, old lives ignited
"Just sad," You told me, as you shed a tear

Those shouldn't have been your last words to me
But you left and bounded into the sea

Ignorance is Bliss

It's not a trend. It's not a fad. It's not fucking cool. It's not going to match you Tumblr theme or your style. Depression is not just something you can paint on your carefree soul with some watercolors. Cutting yourself isn't going to make you an automatic nominee for Homecoming Queen.  A lot of the people who pretend have never had a bad thing happen to them a day in their lives. Except their middle school heart break or failing a class. It's not just something you start feeling one day. There's something that's always been inside of us, it only needs a reason to manifest. Our fingers are on the trigger, we just need a reason to pull it. I think that even if my parents didn't divorce, I would still be as equally fucked up. I think we're just built that way. For me maybe it is just closer to the surface. Some people are born with it deep inside them, so they really don't even feel a thing. Some people have it close to bubbling over, but they bury it inside themselves, acting like everything's alright. This is the case with most people. They've become so good at pretending to be happy, they almost fooled themselves. It's not something to put in your status' or something for people to 'thumbs up'. It's real. It's deadly. It's not something that you want to feel. So be content with your happy self. You're lucky that you don't have to be this way.
I'm not writing this for attention. So that someone will come up to me in the school halls and say, "OMG I'M LIKE IN LOOOVE WITH YOUR BLOG." It's not about that. That's why I've (hopefully) kept this whole thing anonymous, because I don't want people to know who I am. I don't want people to have another reason to judge me. I know that if I do say my name, that people will think I write for attention, no matter how many times I will deny it. So I'm happy with my mysterious identity because I don't have to worry about writing the wrong thing, or hurting anyone's feelings. I don't have to worry about getting (more) negative attention. But most importantly, I don't have to worry about anyone being disappointed once they find out who I am.

I've got a skeleton in me

I know that there are people out there
That are sadder than me
But that doesn't make it different
That doesn't mean I'm depressed for attention
Or that I'm melancholy to be popular
I know that some people cut themselves
That doesn't make them a bad person
Doesn't mean they're braver than me
Or that they're cooler than me
There are different kinds of miserable
And people deal with it differently
Welcome to my coping method

Chimera

I'm terrified
For the day
I fall in love
Because what if
The love I'm looking for
Doesn't even exist at all?
And the memories
Are never made?
And the kisses
Never meant anything?
And the "I love you's"
Are just place holders for the
"I'm leaving you"?
And you just end up
As another what if?

I Am My Own Hero

My uncle was talking to me the other day about shots. He said, "My one daughter can't stand them (she'll pass out every time.) But the other doesn't mind, she's tough." Tough is a word often portrayed by the muscular superheros of our childhood who had claimed the title because they could keep fighting even if they got a scratch. Because they could smash a car. Because they can keep being a hero even when they're hurt. That's the kind of tough everyone wants to be. The kind that gets back up when their pushed down. The kind that can have a vaccine injected into their arm with out flinching. But there is another kind of tough that, in my opinion, is far more impressive. It's the kind that subtle and often goes unnoticed. Under-appreciated, underrated, and far, far too overlooked. It's the tough that people don't boast or brag about; it's quiet. It's the tough that puts smiles on the faces of miserable souls. That puts tears on cheeks, only at night, because during the day their too busy pretending to be happy. The kind of tough that takes a lot more work than the heroic kind. The kind of tough that thrives in the demurest of people and that works without thinking. Heroes choose to be tough, most real people don't. It just comes naturally, like breathing. Once that terrible thing happens, that thing that changes your life, this kind of tough settles in right away. And it doesn't go away. People will try to scale the walls you have built, but they always end up falling. People will try to knock your walls down; trying to hurt you. But you've become immune to nasty words and hurtful slurs. This kind of tough is in every single person who's ever cried themselves to sleep, kept a dark secret, held their feelings inside, or never let themselves skip a beat, even at their lowest. These are the people who "stay strong" for themselves, not for attention. These people are the best society has to offer.

We're too young to be this sad

I know what's wrong with me. I've been self-diagnosed with a broken heart. After my parents divorce I was able to put back together the pieces I needed to love others. I could just never figure out how to fix the part I needed to love myself. However, the part that loves others hasn't really been the same ever since. I mean, I've become so guarded that its rare that I let myself fall in love, because I know I'll end up disappointed. Don't get me wrong, I don't want to be this way. I've tried to be happy, but every time I try, my mangled heart always wins. So I wipe the smile off my face, and if it doesn't come off with the first swipe, I scrub and scrub; until there's nothing left but a trail of tears and a numb, desolate girl. Once again. And then, that familiar ache creeps back into the place my heart had once beat, filling the hole that the vital organ had left behind. I just want someone else to help fix my heart because I'm not really sure that I can do it all on my own. I just need someone to come along that's worth repairing it for. I need someone who wants me to be able to love myself, because maybe then I'll find the motivation to pull out my sewing kit and stitch the fragments back together.

Castles

I have this bad habit. It's actually quite embarrassing, so I don't even know why I'm telling you this. But my worst and most terrible habit is getting my hopes up. I don't even care what it is, anything, my hopes and expectations will be sky high and then it comes out differently than I expected and I freak out. I don't even know why anymore. I should be used to it by now, shouldn't I? It's really heartbreaking. I know that's a strong word to use in this case but it's 100% accurate. I get excited for something, maybe the fact that I think I guy's looking at me (or something like this.) But then I remember, I'm ugly. I think someone likes me. But they don't, I mean why would they any way? This is why I'm naturally pessimistic, because I don't want to get hurt again. I don't want to expect anything too great of anybody, because I know in the end they'll let me down. And I've taught myself this: always expect the worst of things, that way in the end, if something good happens you'll be pleasantly surprised. But if things turn for the worst, you're not disappointed. This is really tragic though, because this is how I get by; on getting my hopes sky high. It makes life a little more bearable, because I have something to live for. Yet in the end I always end up crushed, so honestly, what good does this do me? I guess I'm just a princess, living in a castle of false hopes and broken dreams.

Lyrics that are Ridiculously Accurate

I don't know how I got this way, I know it's not alright- Linkin Park

So don't fall in love there's just too much to lose- Mayday Parade

Every time I close my eyes it's like a dark paradise- Lana del Rey

I can be manipulated only so many times, before even I love you starts to sound like a lie- Demi Lovato

All we are is dust in the wind- Kansas

All the lonely people, where do they all come from?- The Beatles

He's got a Rolling Stone's tee, but he only knows one song- Nina Nesbitt

I felt you questioned the way I was brought up as baby, well you don't know fuck about my family- Marina & the Diamonds

Don't let me go cos I'm tired of feeling alone- Harry Styles

Now I got that feeling once again, I can't explain. You would not understand, this is not how I am. I have become comfortably numb- Pink Floyd

Be My Diamond

You know what truly makes me sad? The misuse of words. I don't understand why such powerful words are thrown around today like they don't even have a meaning. My first example is the word beautiful. Maybe a year ago, I still believed that girls needed to be told their beautiful more often. That we needed to reiterate the fact that everyone is really magnificent in their own way. Nowadays, sure, girls are called beautiful a lot more often, but it's gotten to the point where the word doesn't even have a special meaning. It's inappropriate. We should reserve words like this for things that actually deserve it, not for every new Instagram selfie. Another word that has been terribly used lately is love. Love is probably the most powerful word ever. So why are couples, who have been dating for a week suddenly using the word loosely like it has no relevance?!? Love is something (at least in a romantic sense) that you find yourself in once. It's called the love of your life, not the loves of your life. Also, this is saying you're ready to spend the rest of your life with someone, right? Isn't love really just claiming that you found your life long mate? It's like saying you found a diamond, when all you really have is coal. All you have is something with the potential to be a diamond, but isn't. But you don't stop there though. You go around calling everything a diamond; even just plain old rocks. You use up that word so much, that no one thinks it's special when you actually find that diamond you were looking for. So honestly, if society keeps up with this horrifying ignorance to these glorious words that we use so often, will we ever really know when we find our diamond? Or will we grow arrogant enough that we simply over look them? So that's why I'd rather only love once, than waste my life trying to make diamonds from coal.

Light Me Up

Maybe I’m like a sparkler
I’m dull and boring
But then someone comes along with a flame
And they light me up
And I’ll be beautiful
And I’ll shine for them
They will love me
But soon I will burn out
They’ve wasted their flame on a pretty nothing
~~~
Maybe I’m like a cigarette
I’m dull and boring
But then someone comes along with a flame
And they light me up
And I’ll be inhaled quickly
And I’ll get to their brain
They’ll be addicted to me
But I’m slowly killing them
They’ve become addicted to their death
~~~
But I think I’m most like a candle
I’m dull and boring
But then someone will come along with a flame
And they light me up
And a small part of me will be beautiful
And I will give off light, but not nearly in the way that the sparkler does
And I could hurt them, but not nearly in the way that the cigarette does
I’m practical, but not glorious or deadly
But eventually I will wear away; melt
I’ll extinguish and they’ll get bored of me
They’ll throw me away and find a new candle
Or sparkler
Or cigarette
But I won’t find out, will I?
Until someone gives me that flame

Sinking Slowly

I’ve come to realize that summer’s almost over. Which means starting high school in a month. Which means even more new people to judge me. Even more people for me to grow to despise. Even more arrogant people drifting aimlessly from class to class, in hopes of scoring a college education with their 4.o GPA. I’m honestly scared for my innocence. I mean, going into high school symbolizes growing up. Which is something I’d rather not do. And don’t get me wrong most people don’t grow up during high school, some never do. But I realize that sooner or later I’m going to have to leave my childhood behind and… and… what? What exactly am I supposed to do with myself once I mature and become a emotionless slave to society’s standards? I don’t want to become one of those people who’s oxygen is work. I don’t even know what career I want to pursue. What the future holds is not for me to know until the future is the present. And I hate it when adults ask ‘What do you want to be when you grow up?’ Well, for starters I want to be happy. I want to be able to live my life without anxiety and fear of other people’s opinions of me. My worst fear is that I can’t be happy. That I won’t be happy. I don’t want to be a rock. Sure, rocks are strong and safe; nobody can hurt a rock. However, no one can love a rock. A rock can’t let you close to their heart because it doesn’t even exists. There’s a pond of  misery and a pond of joy. You can toss that rock into either pond, but no matter what, it will sink. It’ll be at the lowest point it can get to. I don’t want that to be me. I have reached low points, but I don’t think I’ve hit the bottom yet. I’m terrified for that day. The day when I don’t have the strength or the courage to pull myself out of my pond of misery. The day when the sludge catches my foot at the bottom, as it begins slowly dragging me under. The misery will fill my body and I’ll be too heavy to float back to the top. And then I’ll get to the bottom of that pond, I’ll find myself surrounded by rocks. At first its scary and I’ll be melancholy. I’ll miss the life I lived at the shores of this pond. But after awhile I’ll get used to it and I’ll grow numb. Maybe because the water’s too cold or maybe because I don’t even want to feel anymore. Yet either way, there I am. Down at the bottom. I will harden up, and I’ll become a rock.
I can’t delay the inevitable, I will accept this day when it comes. But the point I was trying to make was that I want this day to come, and I want it to pass. I don’t want my lowest point to be the highlight of my future.

Lost in Translation

Gold shimmers, snaking a river through the canyon of our young and wasted minds. Sparkling thoughts of muted homicide trickle through forests of insomnia and better days. Fleeting memories convex and concave upon utterly infamous last words, that you’ve memorized line for line, biting your tongue until your heart stops beating.  Try to get a grip on reality and see where that takes you. Heavy hearts, thick with the children of your ancestors only to be wound up tight through you in an everlasting catacomb of misery and slight sarcasm. Beautiful ideas from an ugly mind. And to think I’ve tried so hard to stop these tears from flowing. But I guess only the privileged can live that kind of life. Ignorance is bliss. Hold me closer, maybe you’ll catch the disease. Fake kisses mixed in with heart break and false love, who am I to judge? I am the beholder of everything I observe, everything I observe is a beholder of me. I’m trying to let you down sweetly, so maybe you’ll realize what a mess you’ve made. Please just tell me my lips taste like strawberries, so I can have the kind of love Ed Sheeran sings about. The kind of love that’s been idolized from age three. “I want to love someone who wants to cuddle.” I’m sorry did I miss the memo? Because last time I checked cuddling became fucking and that’s all we ever seem to want to do anymore isn’t it? So fuck each other, have a baby. Name the child in my honor because I’m the one who screwed you over. Raise that child on the premiss of cereal and erroneous tragedy. Throw in a little misguided lust and you have the flower child of the century. Congratulations. You’ve made a miracle mistake.

Worms & Butterflies

I want to find out who I am.
Because who I am is not who I want to be.
But of course I want to be pretty.
And friendly.
And sociable.
And outgoing.
And happy.
And charming.
And alluring.
And someone that you want to fall in love with.
And someone who you want to get to know.
And someone who can light up a room.
But that’s not possible.
It’s like a worm wishing he was a butterfly.
Beautiful things need beautiful souls.
And my soul is just like me.
Ugly.

What it's Like

This is how I would define what it’s like to hate yourself.

It starts out as a thought. White, innocent. Maybe something like “My legs look bad.” But then that thought comes back again every time you look at your legs, each time getting darker and darker, until there is no innocence left in that thought and there is only pure hatred. Black, evil. It’s like black sludge slowly filling up your lungs and then your heart, then it begins to course through your veins until your completely filled up. So filled up, your on the edge of overflowing. You’ve become so broken and hollow that your surprised that the wind doesn’t just shatter you. The wind is life. Constantly there, no escaping it. Pounding into your back, whipping your hair into your eyes, so you can’t even see clearly anymore. And sometimes you get so caught up in the moment, with others emitting such joy and happiness, that you forget for a little bit. You forget to hate yourself. But it will always come back in the end. You’ll look in a mirror, or be alone in bed at night, and all that sludge will refill your lungs. It will hurt so bad to breath that you consider stopping. Stop breathing for a bit. Maybe it would all be easier that way. Don’t get me wrong, people won’t just stand by. Sure their smiles and kind words are reassuring. But reassurance is a temporary thing. Gradually their words and grins will begin to wear you down until your back to the hurt and darkness that lingers at your core. It thrives there, because no one can touch it. It’s so close to your heart, the heart you won’t let anyone enter, that it’s safe for your hate breed. It breeds and broods until your all full up again and there is no person left to comfort. Only your shell. Only a small trace of who you used to be.

But sometimes I wonder, is it like this for everyone? Or am I just a freak?
But mostly, I wonder, is this my future? Is this really what it’s going to be like for the rest of my dismal existence?

That Girl

You know that girl?
The girl who always smiles, and laughs, and cracks jokes?
The one who has friends and a nice family?
The girl who wears nice clothes and has a pretty smile?
The one who you talk to every day?
The girl who seems to have everything she wants handed to her?
The one who hides behind her smiles, and laughs, and friends, and family?
The girl who puts on a mask just for you?
The one with the numb heart and soul?
The girl in the corner who has sadness and insecurity etched into her features?
The one who’s wringing her hands in anxiety?
The girl who can’t seem to bring her smile to her eyes?
The one who’s sweet words seem to be hiding something dark inside?
The girl who has more scars on her heart, than on her wrists?
The one who doesn’t cut but wishes she did, so people could understand how much she hurts?
The girl who has more secrets than she can spare to tell?
The one who you judged and made fun of today?
You know that girl?
I do.
It's me.

Blades in Words

I really want to know what they’re thinking when they spew those cruel words. Are they thinking about how ugly I am? Or how disgusting I look? Or are they thinking those things about themselves? And sometimes, their words are unnecessarily mean. But maybe it’s just me being stupid, maybe I should be used to it by now. Maybe numb isn’t so bad, because it’s definitely better than what I’m feeling right now.
Sometimes I wish that words could physically hurt me, that way people would see how broken I am.

Easy

Honestly.
This is for the guys who ask out one girl, get rejected, and suddenly your life is done. I mean, get over yourself. Its not that big of a deal. Now you know how we feel. No not the girls who reject them or who get rejected. But the girls in the background. The girl who doesn’t have anyone to reject or accept. The girls who laugh at the right time and wear nice clothes and do their makeup, just for you not to notice them. For you to ignore and push back into the static. I’m sure it really sucks that she didn’t say yes, but what about us? The girls who would say yes at the drop of a hat? The ones who would stick with you and love you and not break up with you within a week? Because maybe we’re not hot enough, not pretty enough, not easy enough. But do you want the easy girl or do you want the girl who will cherish every minute with you and every word you say? Guys tend to go with the obvious answer; the easy girl. Because shes just that, easy. Easy to ask out, easy to date, easy to kiss, easy to be accepted with, easy to fit in with. Easy to get into her pants. But girls like that also leave you easily and break your hearts easily. Girls like this move on easily. So sometimes easy is a lot harder than you’d think.

Shade of Emerald

Sometimes I wonder why I can’t speak up more in class. Other times, I wonder why tears come easily to those who are strong. Middle school is a time where you get to know who you are and find your self: NO! I’m sorry insert name (mom, grandma, dad, big brother.) You are utterly and completely wrong. And I know you’ve been brought up on cereal, picket fences, and polished kitchen counter tops, but you know that’s not true. You’ve experienced this tragedy yourself haven’t you? Hey, I don’t blame you for blocking out these horrid memories. In fact, in 20 years I’ll be sitting with my daughter preaching a slight variation of these exact words. She knows I don’t understand and I oblige because it hurts to think back to when I was awkward and unwanted. I was no more than a mere strand of grass in a meadow. I am the perfect height, I don’t stick out and I’m not too short. I’m the perfect shade of emerald, not too light not too dark. And when the strand next to me buds and blossoms, I’m jealous. I wish I was that flower, not just a stupid blade of grass. I guess I don’t really understand though, the people I grow jealous of. What if her mother has cancer? What if she cuts herself? What if she writes on a blog because no one else will listen? So you may think, if you believe anything is possible, maybe you have the wrong outlook. All I’m going to say is that millions of desperate, teen girls believe that the worlds biggest boy band will show up at there door and fall in love with them. So far this has proved unsuccessful, because I’m still single.

Firefly

Its just that I’ve been thinking and I’ve come to realize that life isn’t just made up of people and places. We have our own little obsessions, hobbies, and secrets. And now with me being obsessed with One Direction, I wonder why exactly we’re trained to think like this. In reality I don’t want to want to know everything there is to know about 1D. Maybe its the media or the people who raised us. But truthfully, I think these things that we obsess over, are things we want more than anything. I don’t want Harry Styles to fall in love with me, I want anyone to fall in love with me, and maybe I’m just too scared to admit that. So I surround myself with these beautiful men who are everybody’s dream boyfriends and I tell myself, “That’s what I want, I want him.” But really I don’t; I want someone real. Someone I can get to know, someone I can grow old with or stay young with. I want someone who I can relate to and tell all my secrets to. I want someone to kiss and hug and tell I love you to. So maybe these obsessions are just all my expectations, piled into one thing. Maybe these secrets that I keep to myself are secrets because I don’t really know if anyone can understand. I am like a firefly in a jar trying to fly through the little holes poked in the top. I’m just the staple in the paper that holds everything together, that no one pays attention to, while they read the words that mask the truth. I’m the stitches in the quilt, holding the hushed words and the hurt that has bubbled up but never boiled over. And maybe I think Harry Styles is attractive, but doesn’t everyone? Girls all over the world want these boys to marry them, to kiss them, but what do they really want? One Direction is just a dream, in reality, they are the thing everyone wants but no one can touch. So go ahead and write as many fanfics you want about them; they will never love you. Sorry to be harsh, but sometimes you have to face the cold hard reality named Life. So girls what do you want? Your parents attention? The end of your abusive relationship? Money to pay off student loans? Or, like me, do you want the boy? Harry is my way of screaming out, I want somebody to love me. But I never make a sound. My calls just echo in my heart and leave me feeling hollow again.

Mosquito

Insecurity. That basically describes my life in one word. Insecurities are like mosquitoes. They start out small but the longer they’re with you, the bigger they get; the more they take out of you and the more they become a problem. You can contract malaria from mosquitoes. You can contract depression from insecurities. Lately, for me, its been getting bad. I know that this happens to everyone throughout their teens; the destruction of your self image, but I didn’t realize stereotypes hurt so bad. I mean I didn’t know they would actually make me feel as crappy as I do. Sometimes I look in mirrors to hear that voice in my head reminding me “Oh, your not that pretty,” or “Gosh, people are right, you look anorexic.” I’m not though. I’m not anorexic. Sometimes I go on Tumblr and get depressed because One Direction pops up on my dash and all I can think is that a guy like that will never love a girl like me. That’s all I really want. Is for some guy to tell me I’m beautiful and that I shouldn’t worry about my body because its perfect and that everyone is just jealous. But I have no one to tell me that. So I can’t figure out why sometimes I think bad about myself, hoping that some guy will randomly come along and tell me I’m perfect, when there is no guy. I don’t think there will ever be a guy. And I’m quiet. I don’t tell anyone. Actually, I did. I told this one girl in my grade that I personally dislike, because she always said “You’re soooo skinny.” So one day I replied, “Yeah, I know. I hate myself. I mean my face is okay, but the rest of my body is just…” She sat there shocked and could only muster, “that’s so mean.” Yeah it is and it sucks. But that’s what I genuinely think of myself. And the shittiest thing about insecurities is that after a while, you begin to believe that other people think your (ugly, fat, too skinny, dumb) too. When I wear shorts for gym I get all awkward and weird because I think other people are looking at me and thinking the same thing I am, “Wow, my legs are like sticks.” When I said that to that girl, I’ve convinced myself that she was thinking the same thing because she didn’t say, “No you’re body’s perfect, you’re beautiful.” She just didn’t. And know after hearing other people on Tumblr saying how they want to be able to see their collarbones and their hipbones, I start to question the meaning behind peoples statements. When they tell me I’m skinny, do they think its a compliment? Or is it an insult?
And I find it pretty funny that I’m sitting here acting like there’s an audience, when in reality I will be the only one re-reading this off my computer screen. But you know what? I don’t care. It’s not embarrassing, because no one even knows this blog exists besides me. There’s no one to impress. I cried writing this, but I’ll tell you anything, because no one else is listening. No one else cares about my life.
Today another person said, “Oh my gosh, your legs are so skinny.” Then she mumbled something about being fat. After I summoned courage, I blurted out, “Was that supposed to be a compliment?” Her reply, “Yeah, I mean it looks unnatural but as long as you’re healthy…” Thanks a fucking lot. Now I’m right back where I started.

A Thing with Feathers

If hope is a thing with feathers,

then my heart is a humble tree

One day hope soared in and decided to stay

It perched on a branch

And it made a nest

~

One day,

when there was nothing left to fight for,

I decided hope couldn’t stay anymore.

I took the branch and I shook it

Nest falling and feathers flying

Hope had flew out of my heart once again

~

But strangely, hope still haunts me

Pecking at my soul,

Trying to sneak back into my heart.

But I know better this time,

don’t I?

~

If hope is a thing with feathers,

My heart is a humble tree

Except this time my heart’s broken

And the tree is left empty