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