I know enough about grief, darling, and yes, if you love me you should be terrified.
After he left, I just want to use others to keep myself distracted, and I don’t think I care about anyone else but myself anymore.
I never learned how to write poetry for myself,
the poetry I write for me usually consists of
dead boys and the people I miss and
I am a diagnosis of chronic depression and a
prescription of falling in love recklessly,
most of my lovers will tell you that they could
never come closer to the stars,
but others will only remember everything I ever did wrong,
because when I mess up, I mess up bad.
I am loud, I am quiet, I get frightened so easily,
of small spaces, of the dark, of being left alone and
I feel mostly like glass, but also like fire,
molding myself into who I always promised you I could be,
who my parents always promised me I could be,
and still I miss and miss and miss the ones
who no longer miss me, that’s what killing me,
but when it gets bad I like to think about the fact that
I have made my best friend question her sexuality,
he’d never let you know how he felt before he fell for me,
I have saved lives with poetry,
I am a physical embodiment of recovery,
I am wonderland and a wreck and most importantly,
I am me,
and I will always be beautiful havoc
and a sky full of stars.
According to my doctor, my weight is perfectly average, so why am I doing this to myself?
Why isn’t my silence beautiful too?
But me? I’m stuck here.
I let him use me just to feel his touch for once.
I think he stayed so long because he felt sorry for me.
I am always made to feel inadequate, and I am tired of it.
He has a girlfriend but he has feelings for me again.