# data[].attributes.body
there's refuge in extremities and there's a certain beautiful hope in having no will. I believe it's why childhood is looked back up on so fondly sometimes, you were being told what, and when and who and where and you hated at the time. But then you're turning 16 and you realize that no one really knows how. Why does it feel nicer to hate what you're forced to do? and worse to only kind of like what you've chosen to do? why is it easier to melt down than to sit with it? why was it easier to not call my father and forget about him than it was to hear that he had passed? I think it's because when things are forced upon you, you're subsequently forced to make peace and find joy in them but when things have been chosen by you, you find it harder to make peace in those decisions because if the peace is not instant and the joy is not vividly apparent, the shame becomes impossible. Sometimes I do everything in my day full of question. Sometimes, I miss when I thought my mother knew everything. How jarring it is, when I learned that decisions she made for me were full of question too. No one knows anything.

Proverbs 3:5–6 Trust in the LORD with all your heart, and do not lean on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge Him, and He will make straight your paths.

and I will apply it to my life by knowing that I chose to pray God over any circumstances in my life. I might be going through the valley of the shadow of death, yet I praise him and I don't let things in my personal life stop me from praising God.

# data[].attributes.body
would you have taken your teeth out to chew my food like me? did you cry on the couch to your father pleading queries. am i hard to love? am i acting very strangely? would you have ripped the door frame off the hinges and made it burn. what i hate in this house or was i in love with myself? never really had much to do with you other than being a vessel to give the love of life i had inside my frail body. maybe thats selfish of me but i tucked a pillow under your neck when you fell asleep upside down so maybe i didnt love you but i always loved the universe and to hurt it was never something ive been capable of. and i guess thats why i let you think im still a sobbing mess.

# data[].attributes.body
porn stars could have been movie stars. porn couldve been cinema.

watching others have sex is not inherently mind numbingly vulgar.

when I was 9 i would read boy love manga under the covers.

i felt enthralled, captivated, passionate, erotica.

being able to create an situation in my head where these characters that I admired and held in such high regard. who I watch sing and dance and act and cry and laugh. the handsome face I goggled out on the television was about to engage sexually with me.

the language in this manga was poetry. depicting romance, sensuality, exploring fascination.

the penetration was never the turn on.

the person youd pick to read the about was.

the ability to view sexually, what you love. how taboo. how alluring. you got ridiculed for this fantasization. its parasocial. its weird. its unrealistic. its delusional. certainly more out of touch with reality than the hot single moms who want to fuck near you. its romance novels being the most lucrative genre but never as lucrative as an industry churning out barely legal, school girl, tiny, lesbian teen gets face fucked. porn should have been art porn stars should have been movie stars. porn stars should have been cinema. the patriarchy continues to corrupt all beauty.

# data[].attributes.body
i am still a baby

i am still crying at knee height

pleading to everyone above that i am serious

clenching my fists, grinding my teeth

glimpses of adults laughing at me

this house is big & nothing makes sense

i am small & i am trying to make sense

the feeling never goes away,

i turn 16

# data[].attributes.body
i feel melancholy nostalgia on this garage couch, i want to be in the southside house again. i want to be in a new city every night again. I felt like myself out there, unbound. untethered to all the different girls ive been in this bedroom. i feel it under my feet on the carpet & in my palm when i grip the stair railing. this place is not mine anymore, ill bring my favorite blanket when i come to spend the night. & i guess home isnt something tangible for me anymore. home is where my love is & my house is coming together, falling apart, leaving drywall in various cities & seeing asbestos fall from the ceiling of metro cars. a girl from sao paulo stayed for the night to help me lay concrete, a stray cat in nassau helped me screw the lightbulbs in. i reckon home is something that will be an everlasting construction, & it makes me ache to lay in the site that was once complete.

# data[].attributes.headline
love bombing & sexual validationa structureless poem i wrote in the bath

# data[].attributes.subject
love bombing & sexual validationa structureless poem i wrote in the bath

# data[].attributes.body
when the bath waters cold

i dont slowly add warm

when my shallow hearts empty

i wont slowly add love

when my body starts to shiver,

ill add boiling water on full force

when my hands start to yearn,

ill add loving sex on the first date

when i get the tub too hot

ill turn the nozzle back right, all the way cold

when he says he loves me back

ill block his number, all the way cold

i dont slowly add warm

i wont slowly add love

& it burns too harsh to cool slowly

# data[].attributes.body
I dont know why Im writing to be honest. I hate writing. and I feel like when I do write, its embarasing and its just me trying to make everyone feel bad for me and like I dont know. But I feel like whatever it is that Im feeling, others have to feel or maybe im just saying that because of what the fuck just happened. Maybe im moving too fast?? I dont know. This is too fast. I dont know what THIS is. But Im doing it and I have to accept that and be okay with that. If that makes sense. Nothing I fucking do makes sense. I just do it to like. Do it and that sucks I guess?? I have no real purpose and I feel like nobody really does to be honest. Which sucks. But Its true. Partly. I dont know. This fucking sucks. No idea where my head is half of the fucking time or what Im thinking. None of it makes any sense and like when I do speak it, I dont remember it and that sucks. Its all such a blur, like THIS thing isnt even mine. Its beginning to feel force fed again. Everything. Like everything I do must have a purpose or like I guess a reason for me to do so? maybe. Who knows anymore. I dont know, I know that for sure. I dont see myself being or getting very far. and I have that voice in the back of my head screaming HIM. which isnt very helpful. Like okay. It is??? But then again isnt as much. I dont know. 2023 was okay. and 2024 so far isnt that bad. My behavior and actions and words and everything was gross. It sucked. I suck. THIS sucks. Why am I even referring to THIS as THIS when I dont even know what it is or can begin to explain what it is. I think about how my experiences are mine. and yes they are but I feel like sometimes they HAVE to be mine and only mine. Im selfish in that way and that sucks. Maybe it doesnt suck when I can acknowledge it and know its a part of me?? I guess?? I dont know. I feel like everything I saw must end with a question mark, regardless of how fucking sure and confident I know of it Yk? And the only thing that can end with a period, is I dont Know. Those spefific words. Lets see.. I dont know, I was gonna write some boring ass shit about not being able to do shit anymore but thats not true. I can get up. I can cook. I can clean. Breathe. Blink. Stare. Talk. Think. Like I can do all those little things. But they aren enough. Its crazy to think. I mean it really is, Van Gough fucking cut off his ear because he thought too much or wanted the voices to stop?? I dont know. This sucks. I hate feeling like this. This was supposed to be mine. Force Fed. thats all thats going through my head rn. Force Fed. thats all life is, which doesnt make sense either but yk. it is force fed, if you really think about it. Like cause if you dont force feed something to someone or force feed yourself something or someone then how will you learn. How will you grow. How will you change. Exactly. I wish i was innocent again. Not have done any of the crazy shit in my life yk? I dont know why im like this but I am and thats okay? But it weirdly isnt. I should change. I feel like I should and its something that like feels right about shit. I dont know. Maybe. Who knows? I steal and take. Nothings my own. Nothing. Ugh. Even I feel like my body isnt my own, if that makes sense. I think a lot and sometimes I dont. I dont really mind this but then again maybe I do? but its become so normalized that like its just that yk? maybe thats what THIS is. I dont know why I like marks. They dont even have to be sexual in a way. They can just be there and like yk? Im convincing myself that it shows im real but fuck man. Thats been my favorite word lately, Fuck Man. That. That exactly. That could be what I use to describe what THIS is. I think about saying a lot of things to him, which honestly feels silly. Because Im confident enough to say other kinda shit but like the stuff I wanna say??? No idea. To be honest. It just doesnt come out. Songs I love dont feel like songs anymore and I dont know how to shut up anymore or how to speak properly or communicate and I expect this and that. What ever happened to the kill yourself typa shit? No idea. I should be more mindful of things. Especially with myself. I hate people. But I also love people but like whos who and whats what. No Idea. THIS doesnt even make sense. One time I said, I miss you in ways i cannot articulate. i dream of you in colors that do not exist. I said that. Fuck man. No reflection. No thought. No nothing. Just Fuck Man. The days are blending together, which is true but also not true? I dont know.

I ONCE LOVED A CANNIBAL

AFTER YOU, I WAS A DANK SLAUGHTERHOUSE.

Strips of flesh hung from iron hooks in meat chandeliers. The ruined remains glittered in the darkness like a mouthful of gold teeth. My cleaved soul dreamed to the whir of maggots sucking through the cement. I was a stinking room of self-hate and old blood, and it took me years before I stopped clawing at my own throat like an animal at the stench of good love. I still rupture into this ugly, keening cry when someone

cracks a window to

let new light in.

No idea who wrote that, not me. and I wanna make that clear for some reason. Wish I did but nope. Saw it, Thought It was Nice, wrote it down and moved on. Here we are. THIS really is it.

been thinking about anticipatory grief lately. i love you so much that i know losing you will devastate me. i havent lost you yet but i already miss you. we still have time, but it wont be enough. i think about what i would say at your funeral, and say some of it to you now cause i need you to know how loved you are before you go. you will go where i cannot follow, but you will never really leave me. it wont make it hurt less but it is a part of healing somehow.

to be honest, I have no idea WHAT to say or WHAT to do anymore but that wasnt mine either. Its beautiful. Or atleast thats what I think. I saw something about cigarette psychology and It was pretty. Endearing almost. I guess? in a way, it was. reminds me a lot of my dad. Which is intresting to say. I feel bad. And guilty and Sad. About it. Which I feel like I shouldnt but I do, and i dont know why or how I feel about admiting it. I mean i know I can say it and I can admit it but like. Its different yk?

Such a waste of a girl, such

rumination.

I am obsessive. I contain nothing but replay.

I am blood and blood and replay. I am please dont go.

I feel like if i just put random quotes and such Itll make THIS and myself feel not so alone and whanot yk? and i might like THIS a lot better when Im finished. Going back to the Cigarette Psychology. It had said

The way a man holds his cigarette - along with such personal gestures as how he walks, sits, his nervous habits and hand motions - is a sure sign of his inner self. So says a Los Angeles psychoanalyst, Dr. William Neutra, who looks for the paitients hold their cigarettes. It helps expose - or at least give a clue to - many otherwise hard-to-dig-up facts needed in treating the paitent succesfully. On these two pages are seven examples of what Dr. Neutra has found out about men; also, two examples of ways women hold cigarettes. Curiously enough, however, the cigarette psychology doesnt work on women. According to Dr. Neutra women are so affected naturally in their regular posture that theyre more often than not too conscious of how they hold a cigarette, and therefore useless as subjects for this experiment.

Honestly. No idea why I spent the time typing that. But i did so. Woo hoo!!! Now. That. Is what I call yapping. 4:31 am

# data[].attributes.body
Animals are born with all the eggs that they are willing to produce. Meaning that the molecules that make me have existed since my mother was born. The molecules that make her since my grandmother was born and then her mother was born and back and back and back again. Coinciding that energy cannot be created nor destroyed. I cannot help but think that I'm only borrowing this autonomy. This consciousness. These fingernails. I cannot help but think there is no great distinction between self and earth. Does it ever end. Did it ever start. I cannot help but wrythe in shame that I once pondered an experience more fanicul than being a leaf on a tree that has grown for billions of years. Falling to the groud. Decomposing. Dying. Birthing. Crying. Laughing. Getting to dissect its own thoughts like this.

# data[].attributes.body
Instagram came out in 2010 and started picking up around 2013. I was 7 years old on my phone that used to be my mother's. I remeber seeing a Disney Channel star on the explorer page and feeling as if the two of us were in the same space. The same room as if she could see me like I see her. We're both on instagram. It was the first time I ever saw a celebrity candidly like that, not on the television or Getty Images. It was jarring almost. It was exhilarating and confusing. In 2023 now, I frequently get the honour to DM with artist, writers, rappers, etcetera. Who trump all regards in which, I held that Disney Star, and it's water off my back. I've watched the internet mold itself into myself and my peers alike. Instagram changed not only our relationships with fame and clout, But our relationships with one another. Romantic and sexually specifically. And maybbe it's generational or just growing up obbsessed with the internet. But I find our dystopian modern romance scene kind of sexy in a weird way. Meeting through mutal followers or at a bar, and scrolling through their feeds in the morning. Seeing people, you know and their like. There's something exclusive about it, Online desire is something older people than us cannot relate to and people younger than us are starting to find out but now there's no true thrill in texts and likes. for 18 to 24 year olds, online dating is so socially accepted yet terribly taboo. I think it's already dated. We're all embarrassed that us as a generation are left here. It feels desperate, naked almost. Like we know that this not the way, but what else do we do? Even when we do meet people organically in person, at bars or shops or parties, communicating through social media still where a lot of first conversations take place. An instagram profile while social platform and content sharing tool is a dating profile and we are simultaneously seemingly tied to them while feeling great distance from our online personas.

Getting to know someone over a screen is something humans are already beginnng to adapt to but to analyze a text tone is still so dehumanizing for the current mind. Especially the ones that were only half raised in it. There's a movement of people who want to kind of go back, these problems arise from social media, so just delete social media. But that's nearly impossible for a young person. For humans to develop intellectually and culturally advanced tech and social media networks are going nowhere. The upcoming generation's mind will adapt, look at how tech savvy just young childern from generation alpha are. How lacking of stimulus they feel when interacting with people older than them. So there's a side of me that kind of has to romanticize it view it as a cyberpunk futuristic; society is changing so rapidly over our young adulthood and we're having trouble adapting. But at least, we have the most inhuman technology to give us access to the most human action. Sex, kind of way. It's weird. I find songs that have lyrics about sexting and nudes to be more sensual than ones about real sex. Songs that have lyrics about video games, vaping, texting, etcetera to be more raw and sexy than the ones about records, cigarettes, letters, etcetera. Kiss Me Through the phone by Soulja Boy was always so cool to me growing up and Iphone by Rico Nasty still feel so cool to me now. Maybe i'm trying to create a future nostalgia for my youth subconsciously, consciously. It's like jewels and DJs are for Gen Z. What Cigarettes and Grunge were for Gen X. It's interesting, it's cool, it's the youth collective. We don't want to miss out on our generations culture and when we go offline, we feel terribly disconnected from our peers. Like we're missing out on the inside joke. Like they're gonna leave me behind if I can't keep up.

God. Growing up on the internet at such a young age. What?

# data[].attributes.body
"Your skin is so soft. Your skin is so so soft." He says this as he takes my bra off. he's kissing my shoulders. your skin is so soft.

"Thank you I guess." I giggle and I feel your large cold hands touch my skin. I always get shy when complimented about my body. I make a sugar scurb with coconut oil, sugar, and espon salt. I use lotion of my wet shaved body. I use baby oil to lock it in. I haven't gotten razor burn since puberty. your skin is soft and I like this sentence. it made me feel subtle and loveable.

"Have your tits gotten bigger? They look great." Stop it. I don't know. Tell me that my skin is soft, that doesn't feel like my body. Tell me that im soft. Treat me like you feel the soft. Ass and tits. They sound so harsh, you say them harshly, like they are harshly.

I try to be soft. My soft skin covers my entirety. Please. Please tell me my skin is soft. Notice all the scars, marks and blemishes. Tell me that you see me for the whole of something.

# data[].attributes.body
I've been it for a while now. The feminist who can't take a joke. Who's too uptight. Who makes everything about sex. Who has to bring up the patriarchy while we're out drinking. Ruin it for everybody. Because they didn't mean it like that. And "bitch" is only a word, like "fuck" or "shit" and "whore" is only a word like "fuck" or "bitch" I didn't wanna ruin the party. When I pondered why he tells me that im going too far with my feminist thing and why he's disgruntled that that causes me deep anger. I know to keep a stoic tone and to level with him. "I have female classmates who hate men" "I hear the way you talked "badly" about that boy" "misogyny has an antonmy" how do I reply to such under nuanced statements. From an intellectual theoretical debate about hierarchy in the workplace to me giving an empirical speech about the non western world and having the fallacy of relative privation pushed into the back of my throat. I keep a stoic voice and have to appeal to them like children telling them that the patriarchy negatively affects them too, ears perk up. I think I made some progress. Then he taps his buddy on the shoulder to reminisce and congratulate him on fucking the smart bitch. Recalling the last time I had lackluster sex with a superficial leftist and where do I place this anger. Where can I set this betrayal of humanity down. If they don't listen when I speak and ridicule when I scream don't hear peace and strike down war. Liberation is to cause the oppresser discomfort and when he tells me that im going to far with my feminist thing. He is disgruntled but that causes me deep anger. "We live in America, women here should be grateful." I ran into the news for suspected poison attack on school girls. I talked with a women who had her genitals mutilated to preserve herself for her future husband. The fallacy of privation will not save you. I see my friends cry in helplessness and donate and post and I watch the boys we plead to support watch schoolgirls on Pornhub and then ask why they can't put it back in after trying anal. I look at my mother's face recoils when were watching a show about a husband cheating and he yells and it's painful and I watch men make jokes about their wives about being tied down as if their wife is an authority and obligation, not a partner or a lover. I asked them if they even liked their wives and I'm the bad guy. I'm the bad guy for not taking a joke because they didn't mean it like that so how else did you mean it? And I fear for myself because I think children are beautiful and I want to share the stars in the MUD with someone else beautiful and men look back at me. They look back at me angry, angry that I don't want to share this with them any longer.

# data[].attributes.body
And oh my god am I an ever disgustingly vilely ever longing ever consuming glutton of what feels good.

Oh that feels good.
Yeah there that feels so good.

I've never been immune to propaganda.
I feel it growing from under my teeth.
It breaks through my gums when I'm sleeping.
The ache for success, power, control.
I've tried to pull it out.
Pull them all out.
Keeling over in shameful envy of all that is not me.
White sprouts forcefully through pink.
When I meet model's and buskers and retired shop clerks, athletes and mathletes, butchers and moms who fight.
Envious if anyone who can haphazardly portray a well knowing if themselves and survive.

I'm just a Pisces women, no I'm just ambitiou,, driven and articulate.

So that's why.
That's why, I feel my jaw bursting under the pressure.

Pressure from who
What, when, where, why?
Why is there pressure?
What do you want to prove?
Contentment is not something that is gained.
It's rather hashed out, so why am I buzzing?
Rotting day to day.
Feeling the pressure, built to create, share, consume.

I'm already 15 but I think of other 15 year Olds. They're only 15. They're supposed to be figuring out how to love, how to cope, how to thrive. What they hate and what to make.

But me oh but me.
I'm already 15, and the time is fleeting. I need best under 40 before I hit 30.

I tried to pull my teeth out. And I'm embarrassed I'm not strong enough. As even what I've made from scratch have never been immune to propaganda.

# data[].attributes.body
I had no responsibilities to fill today.

I just wanted to go outside today, to make this time my own. To walk on the snow and examine the hollow feeling, the way that it shatters and makes way for my shoes. The way that a headache sprouts from my freezing ears, to stop walking for a moment and see if there’s any sound excluding me.

It felt as if the earth was all for me.

The patches of muted green where the sun is shining, the loosened mud melting where the people walk.

The blood taste at the back of my throat from seeing how far I could run to cover enough ground quickly feels instinctual as if I've been here for a thousand years.

I walk into the small valley where a creek runs through the summer. I remember drinking from here in June. When my head ached from heat exhaustion and I wore no shoes. I stopped drinking for a moment to see if there were any sounds excluding the water.

It felt as if I was all for the earth.

To make this time my own is to be on my own with time and I enjoyed being outside today.

# data[].attributes.body
I desperately tried to savor the short lived relief I’d get after doing something good. Something morally human.

Believing that this satisfaction could be my static state. I had emotional permanence issues on my own. If I did not feel leisurely, content, warm, and whole for more than an hour. It must mean that my life is bland and dismal, missing something.

I must do more, get more so I can feel better more. Be around good people, consume art, literature, architecture, eat good food, challenge myself, educate myself, share myself, be in the sunlight. Exercise, love, laugh, save bugs, feed animals, plant seeds, throw rocks.

I overindulge in what the human being craves, with the hope that I can control the fluctuation of how I feel in a day to consist of positive influxes only. I always wanted more of something I couldn’t physically grasp. Couldn’t mentally articulate and I feared living without it.

I'm now beginning to ward off the haunting feeling of regretting the life that lay before me. For to live in mediocrity would to be to live as if I will never ever be static. To strive for this “completed essence”

Cause sometimes I am grand and exuberant and full of stars, others I do not talk much. I’m a bland and i'm a rude girl.

# data[].attributes.body
Nearly everything in life is going to be easier said than done. But why didn’t they exclude living?

This has been much harder said than it has been done.

I have over complicated my time here.

Once Maslow’s hierarchy of needs is constantly sustained.
the void feels endless.
My imagination is not nearly enough.

Perhaps I am mad or perhaps I am stupid. Perhaps I am greedy.

Living is to be enjoyed, not analyzed. Why have I trapped myself in a box to choke on my own keys.

# data[].attributes.body
I need to move.

I need to move.

I grew up here and I need more. I need to move. But what if its cold and it echoes in my apartment? What if my heater breaks?

I need to move, but what if I forget my little brother’s birthday? What if my mom forgets what I get at the gas station? I need to move, but what if nothing changes? But no more cat to spill my day on. No more Cat to spill my milk on. I need to move, but what if my mind follows my body? If I can't escape what I am, then it shouldn't matter where I am.

I want to move.

What if the traffic sounds are a higher pitch? And what if I save up for a new car. I want to move, but what if the grocery store has the magazines I like, the ones I can't find here.

What if the streets have buskers? The ones who are loud and obnoxious.

I want to move.

What if my writing has more room to breathe. What if my mind has more room to stretch and bend in a one room apartment.

# data[].attributes.body
Last day of my period, I always feel very sad. My psych major friend told me it can stimulate a feeling of postpartum depression in the body. My mom and I have a lot of disconnect, but we like the clearance section together. She laughed with me like a friend and I am afraid that we won’t ever be alike. I see her plug in her hair dryer and for a moment I feel held.

# data[].attributes.body
I sit in the dirt, and I watched my manicured hands begin to peel the dry bark off of a fallen tree. Am I doing what we do? Intentionally destroying and dredging. Being instinctually human and willing to ruin what is natural. Or am I only doing what we do and curiously picking and peeling back my skin. Being innately human, wanting to accelerate what is natural. Am I cogged or am I turning? Am I nasty and terrible or am I human and have a soul.

# data[].attributes.body
The way that I can contort and stretch my body seems sacreligious.
Pick things up from the dirty, grimy floor with my feet and carry them to my hands.
The skin on my arms are resilient and bouncy.
My lips are full.
My cuticles are moisturized.
My metabolism works.
There's no dire need to worry about how much sugar I eat.
The time that lay ahead of me.
The decisions there are yet to make.
Being able to make my own bed and jump from the front seat to the back.
Being young is so sweet and yet I am haunted by my youth of failing myself by living a life of mediocrity and regret.
Every birthday and every new year.
The ache I feel to display myself, create myself.
Biting my fingernails and gums.
Letting this time pass me by.
I analyze what it would mean to me to live in mediocrity and to me it has no relation to career nor status nor wealth.
Rather it would be to live as if I will ever be static.
To strive for a completed essence.
To think I'll ever have enough if I ever need more.
As if with enough right decisions and bettering myself.
I could reach my full potential.
As close as I could get to an all encompassing state of being.
Sometimes I'm grand and exuberant and full of stars.
Otherwise I do not talk much.
I'm a bland and I'm a unpleasant girl.
Others I'm laughing all day and yet I am melancholy.
I dream of being a star and being loved by everyone or of stabbing my eyes out, screaming. And making everyone watch.
Reserved and anxious others.
I try to be a charismatic socialite.
I eat plums and sweets.
I ride bikes.
I buy cigarettes and shampoo.
I drive my mother's car.
Sometimes I cannot imagine Sisyphus happy.
Sometimes I feel really good and I dance.

# data[].attributes.body
Getting gas is being trapped in a time machine.

The way that I watched my mother do it.
I sat in the car and drew a happy face on the fogged window.
I rocked back and forth in my booster seat and hoped my mother would buy me a candy bar.

I felt the utter excitement in the car when they'd buy the scratch tickets.
I didn't know what the lottery was.

I only knew that my mother was feeling joyously sporadic.

There was something foolishly hopeful in the car.

I get gas for my mom when she can't.
It's cold so i'll stand outside with her as it pumps.
Comfortable silence.
And I have money to buy her a candy bar yet I don't.

She doesn't fall for scratchers very often.
Every now and again she's think that it's kind of fun though.

Everything is less visceral now.
It's too clear.
It's too logical now.
And it will only grow more clear.
I will only grow more unimpressed.

I try to stop it.
I try to hold my days with both of my hands.

And If times can heal all, what could soothe the pain of time?
The pain that time heals.

I understand.
I understand that it happened.
I must feel and I must proceed from it.

The pain of passing time sneaks up on me when I'm in the store.
It sneaks up on me when I see a familiar carpet pattern.

When everything in my body caves in on itself and it's suddenly 2018

When everything feels echoish and it's like i'm there again.

But i'm the only person in the room.

I believe that this is beautifully haunting.

This passage of time.

# data[].attributes.body
You're embedded in every small thing.

I forgot your laugh.
I forgot the exact color of your eyes and if you had freckles on your face or not.
And I think I might've forgotten your voice.

But i'm a little drunk and really tired so i'm not sure.

Do you know I think about you most days.
It's not intentional.
And I really wish it would stop.

I wished it would stop since the second it started.
The moment I started thinking of you as a memory instead of future plans.

I'm not embarrassed about how much I love you anymore.

I realized it was special.
But is it really that special to love someone the way I loved you.
Not everyone is able to love the same way I do.

I'm not going to thank you for helping me discover that.
Because that was all me.

And every small thing that reminds me of little morsels and slivers of our past.
and will one day just be things.

The phone will just be a phone.
And the pictures will just be moments stuck.

# data[].attributes.body
I cannot explain it, my vocabulary, so inept. Everything hurts so fucking badly. I have no poetic language for feeling so

alone in my head, trapped in my body. I feel so hollow in reality, lonely with delusion. Suffocated with love, isolated with hate. Lonely in conversation and alone in silence. I hate myself a lot, I love life a lot. I don't want to kill myself and I won't kill myself. I think about it often, brings peace, brings belonging, pondering it feels more human than communal.

Than any thought that decides to come into my head and run circles around over and over again. It's the most conscious thought there is.  No wild thing would ever think this. There is a fly on my keyboard as I type this. My hands are bashing into the keys, it's scary, loud, abrupt. Does it feel sorry for itself? Does it want to die quicker, less painfully, with more dignity? The will to survive, the will to live? I have separated them, I have made a muddy line. A line 10 yards wide, I meander within it, letting my brain ooze through each side.

# data[].attributes.body
And even if it takes every atom in my body to stop the murmur of my heart and every ounce of energy that goes towards quieting my heart then it cannot be destroyed and that makes it tampered, dwindled, self back into my body. Back into my brain. The journey in which ration makes the energy so fucking boring. So tired.

I no longer try to quiet this aching nothingness.

For nothing to me could never be nothing.

# data[].attributes.headline
" I hoped that the world ending should have came sooner " 

# data[].attributes.subject
" I hoped that the world ending should have came sooner " 

# data[].attributes.body
And I freak out so badly over my own life and its state, that everyone else's response is that the world is ending. I am not stupid and the world is not ending. But for now it feels as if my place, I have known in it is. I am a fool for pleading that the sky is falling down to a person who cannot even see blue.

# data[].attributes.body
I find that I say I can't express myself and that feels ludicrous to say. I express myself in the way that I walk and the way that I sigh. Or by the way I stand by the sink. I express myself when I choose to wear the cute underwear over the ugly ones. When I choose what song on what playlist and when I choose not to drink or smoke or cut right when I get home. I express myself in the photos I take of myself. Or of others when their hair is messy and their teeth are sharp and jaggedy. And every time a movie or song makes me cry. When I pick up the bruised plum over the ripe one and when I buy myself new sheets. I say I can't express myself and I say it because the form in which I am constantly expressing myself is visible to only me and what is expression if no one's watching? So I guess it's being alive. Living. For the way I am hunched over my notebook writing this is a greater expression. of my burnt out body. My lack of maintenance over posture and how badly I want to be seen rather than an expression of being frustrated by the daunting concept of attempting to tangibly express myself.

# data[].attributes.body
I got my teeth removed to lessen my aggression.
I bite when i'm threatened by unfamiliarity.
I am so mean when I am nervous.
I am such a bad dog.

I got my wings clipped to lessen my curiosites.
I leave when I get the chance.
I caw loud and cause a ruckus in my stirring boredom.
I am such a bad bird.

I got my claws removed to lessen my painful kneading.
I am causing you pain for my affection.
I am scratching your leather couches for my own mundane pleasure.
I am such a bad kitty cat.

I had a piece of my frontal lobe removed.
I am such a hysterical human being that it has to be a condition.
I am detached from societies reality.
I am such a bad pet.

# data[].attributes.body
I’m not a consumable person. I don’t know how to forget about people. And then I forget to try. Because why should I forget at all? Maybe the people deserve to stay. Dandelions make me think of reluctance. And socks make me think of laughter. And butter knives make me think of impulse. But the good kind, the harmless kind. Everything I have or see is dedicated to someone. Something as simple as an article of clothing or color. Whether I mean for it or not.  I live to love. You don’t get to know why these things are important. My memories are mine and mine alone. You can peer at them through the crack in the door, but I will not let you inside. Not now but maybe later. I’d say I’m sorry, but I’m not. Not really.

The other night I looked at all the jewelry and clothes and makeup that decorates my bathroom counter. I wear too much of everything. And take it off too quickly. And suddenly it’s covering the surface. I thought about how I should stop. Stop staying up so late and then pretending I don’t. How I shouldn’t pretend, things are my fault. But I do anyway.

I reminded myself that I have a face, a name. People who love me. Care about me. I have all the things that everybody else does. But In those quiet nights, they only belong to me. They are what truly remind me of what matters. Or who matters. They can scream, I’m all the moments. I think the worlds gone quiet. I exist. I am here. I don’t mind who I used to be, but I’m so much happier now. Here In the moment. It feels good to listen.

It feels good to have.

# data[].attributes.body
I spend my days between two worlds of communication. One which is spoken by many. And one which is spoken by few. I can decipher them both. Well enough to carry on. But I often feel as if I understand neither.

I live inside the cracks of hesitating voices and behind swiftly broken eye contact between strangers. I am in your shopping carts squeaky wheels or your forgotten, long gone cold mugs of tea. I am in the moments nobody else could possibly feel alive. And I live in whatever will have me. Whatever or whoever will be mine and mine alone.

Someday I think you might find me. Between the pages, and the tears, and the bugs that crawl over me. All the things that hide me away. Maybe it will be many years from now when you do. Years in which we have changed, too much to still remember. But somehow not long enough to forget, either.

So when we do, we can simply wave and move on. We will turn into the strangers, and I will find a new home.

# data[].attributes.body
I’m so childish.
They took it as maturity.
And I’m so out of my mind, that they began to take it as emotionally in-tune.

I’m so silly that they took me seriously.
And I’m so serious, that they took it for silly.

I don’t know who I am.
I don’t know what I want.

I feel so loose.
I feel so lost.
I feel so lonely.
So detached.

I need to get out.

I need to move out of my body so badly.
It’s an urge.
A need.
A want.

And I’m so afraid of myself.

I hate it in my head.
But I love living here.

I have no interest in doing any of this anymore.

And I hate how everything changes.
So radically.
So quickly.

I feel as if I am two people.

And they hate each other.
Love each other.
Disagree with each other.
Fight each other.
Want to marry each other.

Love each other.

# data[].attributes.body
Im trying not to feel.

I’m trying not to feel abandoned after you left.

I’m trying to get out of bed like it is nothing.

I’m trying hard not to feel bad about anything.

And I’m trying hard not to think about the fact if I was good enough.

Or what went wrong.

You didn’t even tell me that you were going to leave.

You just left.

I’m trying not to think of that because it’s 4:09 AM

And I’m scared of being sad In the dark.

Alone.

Without you.

And I’m trying not to think of that because every time I hear your name, it rings in my head and I want to die.

I’m trying not to feel like I want to die because I want to feel better about everything and everyone.

I’m trying hard not to feel abandoned even though that’s exactly what you did.

And I’m trying hard to trust people even though I look for you in everyone I know.

# data[].attributes.body
Sometimes you make me question my sanity.

Why am I crying over someone who doesn’t love me?

I wanna block you so badly.

Because every time I text you or call you, I feel a little sad.

I’m still in the delusion that you’re still my friend.

Or maybe still a person that I had a crush on.

And when you took 9 hours to respond my feelings got kinda hurt.

I feel like I’m missing something, that used to be mine.

And that’s exactly what I’m doing.

Now I would block you.

But I can’t stand the idea of you forgetting about me.

Even though it’s been a eleven months and 5 days.

And if I blocked you then that’s exactly what would happen.

I’d be the one crying.

I’d be the one feeling empty and lost.

And I’m the one who’s getting lost.

So I’m not gonna block you.

Because I need you in my life.

It hurt hurts knowing that if I did you wouldn’t cry.

# data[].attributes.body
I bite through plastic and his voice pounds through my ears, and I think about what it is I can remember. All I manage somehow is this - living is not a peaceful thing.

All the moments I've deemed worth remembering are loud and bright, and sometimes they are angry and scary, too. But That doesn't make them bad.

They mean something (usually only to me) and that's what counts. I don't know if they'd mean anything to you, I'd love to tell you though. but I do know that people rarely ever want to hold onto the bright and the loud and the angry. They're too busy worrying themselves half to death, all about how they never learned what they'd want to have instead. That certainly warrants some anger.

I think what we secretly want most of all is to just understand. To have something or someone we can cling onto and say without a doubt, I have this or I know this. (I know this, I know you. I know what makes you cry and how I could make you cry and what you want or need. Even if you hide it, Your thoughts like to crawl out of your ears and whisper to me.)

I’d like to learn you inside and out. Just so I can pretend I have this. So I can say I understand this. Even when I never will. I know I’d like to try.

I don’t think we ever understand. Until the moment we realize we’ll never manage to. Never have, never will. I know we’ll try anyway.

# data[].attributes.body
I see people with cuts on their palms, cigarettes littering their porch, wide yellowed smiles and uneven, jaggedy teeth. Eyes that hold a unique sort of experience - something extra hiding inside those abysses of color.  Look in those eyes and you’ll know they’re alive and awake.

With enough years, you don’t have to worry about anything anymore. I’m hoping we can both manage to make it there. Him and I.

My teeth are yellow, uneven, jaggedy, misshapen and my smile is wide. When I want it to be of course. However I worry every hour, every day about the little things. Things that don’t even matter. My palms are smooth, married by promises. Instead I wonder if my eyes will someday start to reveal the truth or at least the rest of my future. I know you’ll be in it. You have to be.

I wish I were these people. They all terrify me. I wish I could avoid how I’ll become them someday. That’d be even worse.

# data[].attributes.body
I constantly feel like my life isn’t big enough.

I never felt like I had a lot of friends.

Everything’s always a bit empty.

I always felt like everything moves too slow and that nothings real.

The urge to go places, to do things with new people comes and goes.

But my motivation to actually change doesn’t exist.

Sometimes I wonder if it’s better to be an observer.

But I feel like I’m watching myself.

Catch fire,

And plummet to the ground.

Like I just jumped out of a plane.

Heading nowhere.

Except this time I was pushed against my will.

My life has changed, and I’m the only one upset about it.

But sometimes my life exploded.

Making it feel as if it got a bit bigger.

Less stability comes with more opportunities.

New ones.

You can’t fill a hole.

People leave.

but you can start new piles.

With new people.

In new places.

And your life will start to Fill a little less small.

# data[].attributes.body
I am just so incredibly sad.

Life hasn’t been

I feel like time is going by so fast and I’m just an observer.

My life is a show,

And I’m just watching.

I’ve sort of just sat here on my bed for the last month.

Looking and doing the same things for hours.

Being forced to relive the same memories.

And then crying so hard that my eyes hurt and it hurts to breathe,

Or I vomit.

Because I don’t want to relive those memories.

I feel quite guilty for just sitting in my room.

That I should be doing things like homework or chores.

Or even just texting people back.

But that doesn’t feel optional anymore.

# data[].attributes.body
Like it? I love it!
Girlhood swallowed me whole.
But I swallowed girlhood whole.

I chewed up every ounce of chatting about our terrible sex experiences, savoring the way I finally didn't feel so ashamed and alone.

I licked the plate of laughing at the girls and boys, we used to love.

Nibbling the way we all want to die.
Bonding over this safe bet.
and it gnawed at my soul as I watched myself turn into my mother.
Grimacing at the sour taste that was left in my mother's mouth.

It chomped at the bit when I realized I had to be magnetic and lovely to be mediocre.

And I devoured the way we woke up together.
The morning after to a disgusting room.
Fast food bags filled with ash scattered along the floor.
I picked up a feeling of gorgeousness lifefulness bliss I feel in a group of girls.

The belonging.
The selflessness.
It began to ingest.
Slowly digest.
Every sense of self I had.
Every sense of sex I had.

I had it masticated the person I was before I realized that being a girl was not going to be my choosing.

# data[].attributes.body
I cannot get comfortable. I cannot get used to being alive. Sometimes I breathe so deeply, that my line of vision slightly moves. My body inhales and exhales as if the ground is inhaling as well. The body's divine automatic function of breathing. I intertwine at sight with a man's sloppily curated slab of pavement. It's unearthly antics within an earthly body. Being here is so fucking strange to me. It's paradoxical. My hands and my feet. They fall asleep a lot. It's pinched nerves and static. It cut off receptors to my brain. And I was just sitting on my leg. Really, I was. As I witness the earth moving with my inhalation. It's pinched nerves and static. I've cut off receptors to my brain. But now i'm sitting on my mind. How does it feel so distant and so out of reach to be stuck within myself, yet it's suffocating to be free. I'll never get used to being alive. It's a mystery, always startled to find I've survived. John Steinbeck from the east of Eden letters. "I'm performing unearthly antics within an earthly body, I am bound to be uncomfortable here."

# data[].attributes.body
I hope I never grow up.
I hope I never grow up because If I do I might be just like you.

I want Grey hair and wrinkles in the privilege of being a sweet old man.
I want kids and the job where people respect me.
I want to hate that job.
because I want to feel better when I remember that my family is at home.

I never wanna grow up because I'm scared if I do, I'll turn up to be someone just like you.
someone who hates their life.
someone who's never happy.
someone who always feel so shitty and you make everyone else feel shitty too.

I hope I never make my kids cry when it isn't their fault and I hope I listen to them because that's all I've ever wanted.

I don't wanna give up the time I spent alone as a 14 year old boy in his room.

the time I spent writing love letters and singing songs and taking naps with my stuffed animals.

# data[].attributes.body
I yearn for something bigger, to be more important.
I beg myself at night to think of ways I can help our world which is constantly on fire.
I need nothing more than a way to create and not destroy.
I need to understand and I am running out of time.
I will never be enough.
And I will always feel like I'm never doing enough.
Like I'm missing out on something that no one else has.
I'm missing out on giving other people the things that they need.
Even when I have nothing myself.
I feel like I should chop off a part of my body if only it could help you I would.
I genuinely would.

# data[].attributes.body
I miss the summer.
I actually hate the summer.
I miss the summer when it was you.
When it was us talking about kissing under the bright sun and falling asleep under the stars in your backyard.
I miss that kind of fall.
I'm not sure if it's just a season and I'm not sure if it's just you.
but I never wanna talk to anyone else ever again.
when I'm lonely and you're the only person I'm lending my phone charger to.
I'm not sure if you know that or not.
I'm not sure if you really understood because I've never tried to explain it to you.
I guess I don't really understand myself.
I have all these feelings and I never know how to word them.
How to tell you how I felt without scaring you off or making you worried.
sometimes I think I love you so much it might actually kill me.
the inevitably that I'll never be able to love anyone else as much as I loved you.
but thats a winter conversation.

# data[].attributes.body
I don't think anything else is real.
maybe I've cracked the code.
maybe I need to start taking my meds again.

you know how much I write?
constantly.

taking notes of every beautiful thing my brain tells me.
sometimes things just happen and so wonderful, a writers wet dream.

every thought at once.
with no motivation to record it.

moments like that go unseen, unheard forever.
it isn't like they've disappeared.
it's more like they never happened.

sometimes in the silence.
I can't help but make my sentences so deep and beautiful.
it's the urge to create.
the urge to create and not destroy.
to do and never undo.
the only thing that is permanent are my words and they only last a few seconds.

I think I know I'm lonely.
I know I'm not alone.
but I still feel lonely.

I know when I'm sad from the third perspective.

I treat my brain like it's separate from my body.

"it's okay"
"you're safe"

things I tell myself at night.
things that keep me around.
keep me here.
less lonely while still being completely alone.

# data[].attributes.body
I used to be so miserable.
I didn't only feel miserable.
I was miserable.
Miserable to be within and miserable to be around.

When someone asked,
"Who are you and what do you want?"

Two children's answers stood out to me.
"I'm an ugly brunette"
And
"I'm a bit of an egoist, I don't respect everybody"

Two adult answers stood out to me
"I'd like more heart and wisdom"
And
"I realize that personal freedom is not enough"

The contrast between juvenile and age answers is crystal.
So maybe my misery was "just" teenage angst.

In March I'll turn 15 at the end of spring break.

Reminiscing the battle of my childhood.
Myself versus sadness and confusion meld into the battle of my teenagehood.
Myself versus anger and vengeance.
Grow into the battle of my young adulthood and myself versus life.

I don't want to be miserable anymore and I understand happiness is not tangible anymore.

That's where continuous monstrous adaptation turned to sustainable beautiful growth.

I don't want to be miserable anymore.
I thought I felt this many times before.
I don't want to feel bad for myself anymore.
I thought I felt this many times before.
And I don't want to hate all of this anymore.
I thought I felt this many times before.

Establishing a line between mental illness and the natural misery is human condition.

Is that what growing up is gonna be for me?
I always wondered how adults made it.
How they smiled in the grocery store while sucide rates are so high and how they dealt with the weight of all of this while mortgage rates are so high.

I think its because they all want to and they all want life for what it's worth.

Though it simple, I think that's more beautiful than anything I've ever seen.

# data[].attributes.headline
"My ignorance made it awful and My ignorance made it lovely"

# data[].attributes.subject
"My ignorance made it awful and My ignorance made it lovely"

# data[].attributes.body
I used to think that people who appeared cheerful were stupid.
I tried picked philosophy.
I decided life was meaningless, boring, repetitive, awful.
I don't want to make it worthwhile.
have you seen the jwst images?
I don't want to get better. There's nothing wrong with me.
Money. A big house. A nice car. A beautiful family.
All sounds drab to me.
See the world?
Have you seen the world?
I hate tsa. I get motion sick on planes.
I hate going to school.
I hate waking up.
I called it realist pessimism.
To be anything other than miserable was ignorance.
But that was my ignorance.
Today I got off school a little early, and I don't mind my classes.
So I did a little more homework than usual.
So my grades are a little above average this week.
I found a rose on the ground walking to school this morning.
I pressed it into a book. I've never done that before.
Gabriel is making me laugh again.
My mom is singing Taylor swift to me.
It's a super Moon tonight. I like watching everyone's head turn to it.
Nothings extraordinary.
I started breathing slower. Reading slower.
I like the idle time.
I started going outside everyday.
The wind in my hair, the dirt in my shoes.
I like the colour pink.
I have kids to tend to.
Now I listen to Destroy Boys, as I take feed them.
I started drinking water a little more, cause I like the way it goes down my throat.
And my mom still takes furniture from the side of the road.
We clean it better now.
I keep my room clean now.
Cleanliness is godliness.
I've been taking better care of myself now and I still get drunk all the time.
I like the color yellow a bit more now.
Not to cope but to enjoy on the porch at 11:00 PM with a class of ice water.
Sorry mom.
I want to enjoy the delusion.
I exist in corporate America.
Things aren't so good but I can make them be, and things aren't so bad but I'll make them be.
I didn't get better because I wanted to be healthier or happier.
I didnt get better, those thoughts are still here.
Lingering like the smoke last summer.
Every time I smile.
I feel like I look stupid.
Laughing like the fat kid who doesn't know they're getting bullied.
And every time I cry.
I feel like I look stupid too.
Sobbing like the privileged white girl who wants to die.
It all feels stupid.
The way I tried to articulate this.
Make sense of this.
The way I tried to diminish and ridicule this.

# data[].attributes.body
I went to the mental hospital
and I learned I really like coffee
we're not allowed to have it
because it messes with you're meds.

so today I made cereal
with coffee
and I put it in my mouth
and tears started streaming down my face.

it was so bitter
it was so warm
so sweet

I feel so loved by life
when I drink dark black coffee
with little to no sugar in it.

life gave me the chance to drink coffee.
learn all the ways I can change it.
learn the best ways to eat cereal is with dark black coffee.
life gave me that even though I tried to leave.
and maybe it was showing me that there's a chance and I have a chance.

maybe I can make it and learn about all the other things I love to eat and drink.

maybe life gave me coffee and cereal so I had the will to discover.

it gave me the hope so that maybe I can find other things as good as coffee and cereal without destroying myself.

# data[].attributes.body
The rat has never looked more like a rat than a rat on the biology table spread across a small tray soaked in formaldehyde solution in an attempt to mask the rot.

A rat cut down the centre, observing eyes scanning it for every organ, assessing its congruence with the textbook pins through its entirety.

Spleen.
Liver.
Stomach.
Small intestine.

It didn't look a thing like the textbook.
It was brown and sloppy and tangled.
Not set out in blue and purple.
Not labelled or distinguished.

It had no familiar shape.
It had no evidence of function until carefully observed.

I want to be dissected by the public.

Tear me apart and lay me on the table.
Label every scab, then peel back all my skin.
Stab a pin through my brain and jot down the thoughts that you see.

Ask the teacher what they mean.
Was the hypothesis correct?
Throw the scraps of me in a waste jar.
Place my heart on the tray and discover my appendix is missing.

Will I feel functional if carefully observed?
Will I feel like a human?

More like a human as a human on a biology table?

# data[].attributes.body
I've always been a bit scared of romance.
and one of the only things I found worse than romance itself was admitting I was scared of it to begin with.
I've always worried that I wouldn't measure up in a relationship.
and it's resulted in me avoiding them entirely.
all because of my pointless insecurities.
but I have a much different concern now, that because I've passed up opportunities to have something romantic with somebody.
perhaps I'll struggle to find anyone at all.

someday.

and it's a stupid thing to think about.
because I have much more pressing questions relating to my past and future.

what I want to do with it.
and,
who I want to be.

I've been trying to teach myself to not desire happiness from others and rather find my own.
and wishing to be in a relationship seems to go against that sentiment completely.
There are so many things in life to love that are better than people.
and somehow regardless of that fact,

I think I'd love to have somebody to love anyway.

# data[].attributes.body
I've been thinking about relationships a lot more recently.
I'm 14, nearly 15, and yet I've ever had anything serious with anyone.

I suppose it's because I always felt so limited.
But now, I can't help but daydream about living in a little showbox of an apartment.
Preferably with another person.
A person I may or may not be in a relationship with.

Spending nights making fun of each other's cooking.
Watching reruns of old movies and shows.
Falling asleep on the couch together.
You name it, i've pictured it.
All that stupidly sweet and cute domestic crap.

It's weird.
I never thought I'd let myself think is as an option.
I always see myself as someone fluid.
But for the first time ever, i'm starting to see the idea of being a person.
An actual person.
Who's with another person.
As a real possibility.
It might even be a likely one.

It's scary to think about, but more importantly, it's kind of comforting.
I'm excited for what the future holds.

# data[].attributes.body
It can be easy at least for me, to forget
the way envy spares no one.
Not in the sense that we all feel it for others,
but that someone will always feel it toward us.

If i am so "flawed" that I want to be like
somebody else, what can I do if they
feel the same?

If we both want to be each other?

It will create nothing but destruction
in our pair.
We will live only to suck the life out for our counterpart.

I always fail to even see how someone could envy me until it is confessed. "I want to look like you, to find things "easy" like you do. I want to be you."

And I swear to you, you don't.
But that's the problem.
We're all too busy feeling our own envy
to even begin to understand that other
people can develop it too.

Too wrapped up in our own loathing to get rid of it all, to finally understand why we are also worthy of envy. We'll just carry on how we always do, and wish we could be someone else.

But never ourselves. We are too "flawed: to be ourselves.
Even if someone out there wishes that they had those very same flaws

# data[].attributes.body
Platonic Love is one of the most beautiful feelings to exist.
There's nothing greater than talking to someone
and feeling like you'll never be sick of them,
knowing your relationship won't progress past being friends
but you'll always have one another regardless.

You remind me of who I can be.
Or maybe, what I am but often forget about.
I always feel like i'm not much of anything, but then
you come along and make me feel the exact opposite.

You tell me what friends of yours say about me,
the kind of admiration that would never reach my ears
without your help.

But honestly, even when other people think these
surprisingly sweet and nice things about me.
It makes me much happer to know
you agree with every word
they've said.

# data[].attributes.body
It's so frustrating to need a change in scenery and not be able to get it. The other night, my friend complained to me about how everything bored him, and I consoled him by saying I feel the same way and that one day he'll find something or someone that'll change the world around him for the better.

So we stayed on the phone for a while, and he played the guitar for me and another friend, and I started tearing up during it all. I don't know why, I guess I was just happy. Happy to be talking at three in the morning like it was just another day and be so at peace and feel so loved.

As I write this, I want to get out of my room. But I was in my room when I was on that phone call. And I wanted to be nowhere else but there while the three of us were talking.

I suppose it's just everything declining to remind me of how I need people in my life like I need air and water. That no matter how much I change, I'll value their company above all else.

Maybe my friend will be the next one to tear up on call. normally they'd rather die that do that, but if it was with just us two. I don't think they'd mind at all.

# data[].attributes.headline
"Thinking is so much easier when I don't think"

# data[].attributes.subject
"Thinking is so much easier when I don't think"

# data[].attributes.body
Everybody's a poet until they try to be. The beauty of your words can never be corrupted, just as long as you don't think about them too much.

Not everything needs to be wrapped away, a gift under tissue paper or a pill inside the dinner you serve.

Not every emotion you feel needs to hide behind metaphor, but you're arrogant and refuse to acknowledge that. You think those metaphors are blindfolds when they're never that effective.

Metaphors are veils, the kind of flowy gauze worn by your mother on her wedding day, the kind that makes it so you can still see the tears cried during her vows through the material.

I'll speak plainly now. This doesn't make sense, not unless you're making sense of it yourself. I know that and I don't care, because that's the whole point. We're all poets until we put in the effort.

Until we corrupt what we love for ourselves. So I suppose I just won't try. I'll leave you to try instead.

# data[].attributes.body
Do you think you're better than people? Or do you think you're worse than people.
I mean I fucking suck, but at least I know I suck.
And I don't know anything.
At least I know that I don't know anything.
And nobody's special, at least I'm not self righteous.
"I'm a fucking walking paradox"
And I think I'm better than people because I think this way.
I think I'm worse than everyone because I just said that.
Do you understand this egotistical loop?
Do you understand the shackles of self awareness?

# data[].attributes.body
I want something to happen to me.
Something big.
something scary.
something that can be blamed for the way I want to let myself go.

I envy people who love for pleasure and pleasure alone.
I think I am becoming one of them.
I do not need sleep, food, air-
I need thrill.
I need energy.
an endless supply of it.

I need someone to punch me.
let me taste pennies on the roof of my mouth and the tip of my tounge.
because that is a thrill.
and that is what I need.

do not offer me guaze, or an apology when it happens.
instead, watch as I struggle to breathe and I shake and tears stream down my face.
watch me as I learn to live like I will die tonight and die like I will love forever.

and envy me.

because I will be beautiful.
and you will be too.

# data[].attributes.body
I'm melting guys.
I'm sitting here and I think I'm falling apart, everything is so heavy and I can't really breathe and suddenly those tears are in my ears and my heart is beating so slow and I don't wanna do this.
I don't wanna fall apart.
I don't wanna cry.
I don't wanna have to think these things but I am.
I'm melting.

# data[].attributes.body
There is something so beautiful, so raw and so genuine about relationships between women. Whether it's Romantic, Platonic, or Friendship wise. Something within the fresh earth. it's natural and peaceful. it's ancient and infinite. it's presence has always lingered between the few women who were bold enough to fall for such tenderness. the softness, comfort and happiness. the moon connects us all. throughout history a glance at the moon, a smile at the stars, has brought as all together. the women of secrecy and emotional scars.

# data[].attributes.body
the ocean is boundless.
it has no boundaries and it never will.
nothing stops it from flowing so freely.

I envy the ocean.
but why?

i envy the freedom.
the space.
the vision.

it goes on and on and on forever.
none of us know what's out there.

it's so breathtaking yet so distressing.

people say that the ocean Is gorgeous.
beautiful.
pretty.
nice.

but do any of us know what's really down there?

# data[].attributes.body
The water is where I belong on the beach, not the sand or the rocks or shells. I lay in soft white sand, it sticking to my bikini bottom, to my legs and back. The waves are so hypnotizing, always crashing and falling. Rising and lowering if it ever so chose to. It moves aimlessly at me. I feel whole again, the feeling brings contentedness. It doesn't have much meaning. But the ocean gives me life, gives me feeling. And even though it burned my throat and my eyes, causing me to gag and rub my eyes. It was still nice.

# data[].attributes.body
From great anguish comes great art.
So why is everything I make lack beauty?

For none of this is lacking.
The glass is not half empty nor is it half full.

The glass is a chalice.
A chalice overflowed.
A chalice drank and dry.
A chalice overturned in the sea taking on water and Sinking just below the surface.

The chalice is made of gold, now a tattered and weathered goblet.

# data[].attributes.body
"You're an asshole."
"I hate you."
"Leave me the fuck alone."
"Don't touch me."
"You're one shitty person."

I say as tears well in my eyes.
I say these words again.
Bigger.
Louder.
Angier.
I repeat as my cheeks burn red and my teeth grind with anger.

My finger points limply in front of me, shaking as my fatigued body rattles with sobs.

I point to the person in front of me.
Them...
Startled.
Shocked.
Stumbling back into the trash behind them.

They open their mouth but words don't come out.
Just air.
No sound either.

I'm still shaking, And crying.

The person in front of me begins to cry as well.

We look at each other and we slam our bodies together.

Hair pulled.
Screams and Shouts are being shared.
Kicks.
Punches.
Grunts and groans as well.

Blood.
Blood?

Why is there blood?
I pause.
And we both stop.
Looking at each other.
Gasping for air.

Who's bleeding?
Me or them.
I can't tell.
The room is spinning.
Why.
Why.
Why.
Why.

I close my eyes.
And fall asleep.

# data[].attributes.body
What has my life come to?

I'm here,

sitting in an abandoned house.

waiting for the rain to clear up.

yes it's relaxing and I'm listening to music.

I have the urge to dance in the rain

get soaking wet.

have my clothes stick to my body.

perfectly shaping my misshapen body.

but I'll get in trouble.

is it really Worth it..?

to get in trouble and not let in the house for being soaking wet..?

I mean I can just clean it up afterwards..

why did I even come outside.

I should've stayed inside.

atleast i was dry and warm.

but I'm cold and wet now.

Wait.. how'd I get wet?

I'll catch a cold.

it's all my fault.

why do I do this to myself?

I don't think the rain is going to clear up any time soon..

I should've stayed inside.

Oh my god, I love this song.

atleast my shivering is synced with my music.

that's a good thing..

right?

is anything ever right..?

men.

I hate them.

I mean what ever did they do to me?

nothing.

so why am I so fucking scared of them..?

maybe I shouldn't be so hesitant with them, or nervous around them.

Laundromat smell..?

ahh..

brings back memories.

nice memories.

with mom...

Mommy?

please..

I'm sorry.

I didn't mean to hurt you..

please stay..

I can't do this anymore..

mommy?

mommy!!

oh? the rain cleared up.

that's.. good I guess.

oh.

I'm back inside now.

# data[].attributes.body
it's fucking sick, isn't it?
I've been 65 pounds.
I've been 125 pounds and
no matter how light I get,
it is so dark here.

the pursuit of perfection consumes me whole.

consuming every thought
consuming every new memory
consuming coke
consuming sweet coffee

# data[].attributes.body
You've turned butterflies to stinging bees

I trip and fall and scrape my knees

But I won't ask for help cause I'm afraid

and it might hurt but I won't cry

because you said I'm weak if I

show the world that we can not be saved

you've turned falling into crashing hard

and thrashing in somebody's arms

cause I'm afraid that everyone's like you

and I cant say I love you back

cause I'm so scared I'll end up trapped

I'm so afraid of starting something new

# data[].attributes.body
Sometimes a butterfly will flap its wings just a bit too loud
And there is no escaping the moving storm of this matter
That flies through the heavens to rain down on us
The paper cranes flying around us in a group of bruised paper
Or the dark and stormy nights in summer

Sometimes, the butterfly is tired and its wings are silent
No flapping, no flying, it will sleep on a leafy branch
The world is silent then, no movement apart from
The rise and fall of my chest in the dark evenings in November

Sometimes, I wish to kill the butterfly so the world would just dissipate
The thousand melodies screaming in my mind quiet
And so the hundred ravens cawing from within my chest
Would close their beaks around reddened flesh instead

Sometimes I wish the butterfly was dead so the winds
Would howl unchanged, their plaintive rhapsodies
Soft-spoken and soothing like a mother’s voice
And so the paper cranes crowding around me
Would disperse in the slow moving of the waves

# data[].attributes.body
I met my shadow yesterday
Shook its clammy hands, greeted its trembling form
Wrenched it away from the bitter stench of sameness and cold
I met my shadow yesterday, it had no hands, but I shook them
It had no heart, but I shattered it in a million shards like glass
I hurt my shadow yesterday
I stepped on it and crushed it right underneath the sole of my shoe
Until it became flat again, its lungs caved in and its screaming silenced

I met my shadow yesterday,
And I spoke to it, too.
Its grin mirrored mine, its plea went unheard
And soon enough, it was just a darkened shape at my feet again
I met my shadow yesterday,
It spoke fluently the language of the birds and of the dead
And I answered fluently, too.

I met my shadow yesterday,
Its grin too wide and its tears too loud,
Its eyes too bright and its tongue too sharp
I met my shadow, and I silenced it, too.
Until it was just another shape lying face down on the ground, again.

I met my shadow

# data[].attributes.body
The wall vibrates beneath the weight of my head, like a living, breathing being.
The wall shakes and thumps and moves, slowly, forward.
Am I crying?
The wall rocks back and forth, back and forth, violently.
A bittersweet comfort.

The floor trembles beneath my touch, it deteriorates
And crumbles.
Am I falling?

The floor sinks further and further beneath the flowers and the soil.
Am I breathing?
The floor is patchy and faded, blurry and not-quite-there
Beneath my gaze.
Am I fainting?

The walls breathe and sigh with my sobs, waves crashing
Back and forth.
The floors fade and so does my vision, black dots and a blurry picture
Am I dying?
My limbs shake and burn, back to the wall, a solid support
Am I trembling?

The universe in a sismic armaggedon, pieces falling
To the ground.
The universe flooded with salty waters, oceans freed from
Their slumber.
Am I breathing?

# data[].attributes.body
Having a body is such a solitary thing. Hangnail, chipped tooth, the scars that are stories and no longer traumas.

What? You know I'm right.
The meat of you respects the meat of me. I can tell from the hitch in your breath. I breathe for me. You breathe for you.

We are scraped knees and body hair and every cell we've ever become. Yes, that includes each other. Did you know that a single tough can exchange more than ten thousand cells?

How much of me is also you? Do you think about it? The places my tongue has been?

I dunno. Look at us all alone together. In love alone together.
Age cooking us for the bugs together.

Our bodies awaiting death alone together.

# data[].attributes.body
I killed my first dove today.
I broke its neck just as it took flight,
Tore its feather out of its marble wings,
And dug out its gilded heart
From its thorny ribs,in the golden heat of a winter night.

I killed my first love today
Killed it right as its wings fluttered in my chest
For the first time, wrenched its fleeting touch
From the thorns growing between my lungs
And tore my beating heart out of its gilded carcan.

I killed a dove today, wrenched from its beak
The olive branch and the heavens' fruits
Drank its golden ichor and tasted its copper tears
Bit down on its marble feathers
And tore out a butterfly-shaped memory.

I killed my love today, in the sweet glare of the morning sun
In the soft haze of nascent death,
I tore out my heart from between my lips,
Closed fists like alabaster on ichor-stained skin
I ripped out the hungry thorns of a rotting rose from my lungs
And freed the hurricane from its prison.

I killed a dove today, with the same hands I used to hold your breath,
I killed my love today, and its tender neck snapped silently
In the soft haze of a dying dawn.

# data[].attributes.body
Candles burn into the night
Amulets are placed on high places
As the stars meet the magic
Of this mystical moment
Shades and shape define
The hues of a soul in torment

Spirits are attracted
To this bridge between worlds
Dark aspirations inspire
This ring of singing auras
While the blood testifies
A moon that weeps inside

Papers containing arcane words
Are folded thrice to hide
The profane meanings in them
Chills are felt, passionately
In a tender innocent skin
The divine is lost, defiantly

Strange symbols are seen
As the spells are concluded
Forbidden knowledge of the ghosts
Is released from old coffins
Like a flower, the crosses bloom
As the phantoms keep on stalking

# data[].attributes.body
Amidst a morbid night
With a feeling in my mind
Where the dreams of you
Permeate my now sick thoughts
I push back the tears you caused
In a search for all that wasted time

There is no sleep
There is no happiness
Only your poisonous memories
That haunt my stillborn days
And it seems that I was wrong
About all the things I didn't say

While my heart pumped this loneliness
My painful blood slowly fell
In the cold and bitter steel
In the ground where I bury myself
And as I drunkenly missed you
I started hearing the song of my suffering

Tunes played in the distance
The rhythm was slow and cruel
And as the chords of fate were strummed
I wished you would leave my conscience
I wished I bled enough for you to see
That there's no soul left in me

# data[].attributes.body
Through a certain garden I've once seen
A brightness shined over the flowers
He had a form, a soul and a name
And as if He were the moon
Glittering in the sky of winter nights
He was a beauty that in my mind loomed

A blatant love stretched across my soul
A virtuous bravery was placed in me
And I felt as if living wasn't lifeless
As I swam across that realistic reverie
For my ghostly body finally reached
A renewed and disillusioned dream

While my feelings reached the stars
I watched as He danced amidst the flowers
And my imaginary raced to meet He
Hurriedly trying to embrace that gracious soul,
His warmth
And his feather-weighted heart

I figured that by now you've realized
After nineteen confessional verses
That I'm already yours
And as your heart enlaces mine
Our fates are spun together
Just like the scent of the flowers testify

# data[].attributes.body
Take me in your decaying arms
In this night of great anguish
As we are judged by pain
As you poke my wound
And I get lost between reality and madness
In your unfaithful feeling

I see you nailed to the cross
The same one I always carried
My stigmas are your woes
And with each cold dawn that passes
We no longer feel the blood flow
From the gaping cuts in our bodies

have me in your horror
And until death takes us
Finally break free and feel my love
One last time, at the end of time
And remember to lock the door
'Cause we won't be here for long

We'll be alone here, together
Eternally dancing, with light and ethereal steps
On top of the hot pools of our blood
In the impurity of our self-sacrifice
We'll see each other again on the other side
On the tombstones above our corpses

# data[].attributes.body
As the blood dripped
Amidst the starlight
And the haunted darkness
There came to me a certain demon that I loved
And in him my sad end was concentrated
A morbid death had formed

I looked at him, with angry despair.
And I cried, dying and in time fading
Beholding, in hate, that perfect and ugly face
My naked soul no longer had salvation
For it was hell that awaited me
Beneath the rivers of blood that ran through my hands

Wish I could have seen through this horror
Through this black magic that bewitched me
The autumn of my spirit has begun
And the cold winter awaits me
A mere reflection of melancholic love
That my sad body protects

In seconds, maybe hours, maybe minutes
I will die for good, and in vain
The devil awaits me in my sepulcher
And the love curse that was once a mystery
Now bleeds my wrists and takes me to rest
In the pit of the most hideous cemetery

# data[].attributes.body
I was lying down
Sad and unhappy in one night
And while looking at my bedroom's ceiling
A sudden "maybe" came to my mind
"What?" at the time I thought
Reacting to a word that made my mind its rest

After the mysterious term took me out of my daydream
Out of my idle mental space
I came back to my senses, and I began to think
what the hell was that
And why did it haunt me
That weird "maybe"?

Suddenly, a sadness came to me
It stayed there shortly
It took a while to leave, and then I realized
Lying in my bed, I wasn't sure
Whether I was alive or dead, in the past or in the present
Maybe the first, maybe the latter

Here is the origination of the term in my conscious
Coming from my moral inability
To step out of the threshold between "yes" and "no"
Cursed am I for keeping myself in this uncertainty
And live my days normally
Ignoring that phantom "maybe"

# data[].attributes.body
Do you think being happy all the time would get boring?
I know it's a dumb thing to think, and imposible at that, but whenever I felt horrible I always thought that.
I knew that I didn't wanna feel awful, and I wished to feel happy, but I told myself that if I was always happy, life would get boring.

Like a twisted justification.
For what I was going through.

I guess I was hanging off of the logic that bad things make great ones greater.
In comparison to the horrible days, the ones where I felt just "okay" were amazing.

On the flip side of that though, worser days seemed worse in comparison.
So in order to elevate the good, you had to lower the bad.
Was that okay?
Was that trade off worth it?
Or maybe it's all a lie, because good days will inevitably be tainted by the bad ones anyways.

That your happiness won't last forever
and..
You're eventually going to trip into another pothole.

It's like a sunday ruined by the monday after.

Or maybe, there's just no way to win..

# data[].attributes.body
When I kissed you, you're face was soft and your lips were warm. I hope that one day we will share a grapefruit with one another in the morning, and you'll ask me to lick the extra sugar from your fingers, the memory will linger on your hands and your mind all day. When I tell you You are handsome I mean it, and when I tell you I like you a lot it sounds like a prayer. Which is funny because I don't believe in god or anything like that. But when we go on roadtrips, we'll hold hands in small towns and i'll sit in the car while you pump the gas. When people want to hurt me by calling me a whore or a slut or a dyke, and when men at bars don't take no for an answer i'll tell them I have a boyfriend. Your love was commercialized when it was convenient. Sold at walmart in rainbow packaging while the profits fund went into a campaign donation group. Somewhere in London, after a long day of saving the world from gay agenda, a lawmaker goes home and watches lesbian porn. This is complex. Just like everything else. You'll wipe your sweaty hands on your shorts and try to kiss but miss my mouth and laugh at road signs. You'll argue with me for parallel parking and fall asleep next to me while watching a movie. Brushing my hair behind my ear. In the background will be strangers with their politics and religion and fetishes.

Things Blue In And Out Of Focus.

If it tastes bitter, sprinkle more sugar on the grapefruit.  Dump the whole bag on it. Drown in it's gritty sweetness if you want to. There will always be enough. The fruit is wet, soft, and acidic. You share it like communion. You continue.

# data[].attributes.body
Is it considered Misogynic to love the way blood vessels broke beneath my skin?

To see the patches of purple across my neck and collarbone?

To know you stopped the blood from flowing for everyone to see.

To remember the taste of my skin?
How it felt in between your teeth.
How you felt every breath I took.
How you could feel very sound I made so you could bask in it?

I wanted nothing more than for you to do it again.
and again.
and again.

To cover me in memories from your mouth.
To display me to everyone that you marked me.

# data[].attributes.body
Your touch was like the taste of whiskey.
The kind that softly touches your lips yet leaves that warm amber trace down your throat.

Like liquid gold.
I've had one sip so why not another?
and another?
and another?
Until I have three whiskeys too many and my body grows cold to the sting and i'm on the ground underneath you.

I am drunk on your touch.
The warmth that has now become a flame.
It is part of the touch, it is unnoticed.
and in a possible attempt to provide a comfort on my pillow at night, I disguised this flame as theatrical romance.

I was on the ground under you, your hands on my wrist, legs moving upwards.
I've never been in a position like this.
Neither of us know what to do.
So I keep drinking you down.

But soon, your mother finds me drunk with your touch and takes the bottle away.

# data[].attributes.body
I've grown to dislike both of my parents.
Specifically my mother.

My father was okay, He wasn't around most of the time.
Which i'm glad he wasn't. I mean he was at home with us. He just wasn't there mentally or emotionally.
He had one job.
He didn't play with me or my brother, or cook for us or read us story books. He didn't laugh with us either.
But when he would laugh, he would always cough.
It's a bit sad that I can't remember what his voice sounds like.
I mean I can call him, but when he does call I get scared and I don't pick up. Always making up a lie and saying "Oh I was in the shower." or "Sorry, we were out shopping."
He was always doing drugs, or passed out from all of the meds he was taking, or he'd be in bed doing nothing.
But if i got lucky then i would be outside with him, and we would talk and talk.
There wasn't much to talk about because I was just a kid and Kids don't know anything.
But soon that cigarette turned into 2, then 4, then 6, then a whole pack.
Maybe that's why I suspect I may have asthma.

My mother on the other hand she was always at work.
Or she was yelling, or sleeping. She was always so tired, i mean i can see why. Having a dysfunctional husband and working 3 jobs isn't always easy.
she was never happy. Or was she?
I think she was when she met my father.
I mean who wouldn't be?
Considering how young she was.
My mother was beautiful young women and my father was a crusty 30 year old man.
I wonder what brought them together. Or how they met.
I don't even know how long they were married for.
but i'll never know until I ask.

I can't speak for what had happened with my parents when they were growing up because I was never actually there.
and i'm too scared to even ask about what they went through because i know what the answer will be, and if I don't give my mother a "good enough" answer she'll get angry and do something.
Always bringing those nasty things out on her kids.

I was around my mother a lot as a kid.
Or that's what my aunt tell me.
Always clinging and sticking to my mother.
Like I was trying to become one with her.

I don't have a whole lot of memories with both of my parents.
I know that they are going to die one day.
And I know I don't have a lot of time with them and that they don't have a whole lot of time with me either.
But i'm scared.

While it seems that they've both gotten better over the years.
As i get older, they're flaws become more... noticeable.

My father being schizophrenic and having bad anxiety as well.
My mother becoming like every other person, gaining the achievement of having depression.
Dealing with this alone, she then got into drugs and alcohol.
She's always so sad, a look of betrayal and loneliness in her eyes.
Putting up a facade up for her sisters and everyone around her.
Always laughing and smiling.
I would've liked to see this side of her more.
But I only got the side where she was high off drugs, drunk from alcohol or she was sad and out of it all the time..

I still think she got it due to her kids.
The depression I mean.
Having 4 kids and no man to be alongside with her.

A rebellious teenager.
A casual run-away.
A terrible 6 year old.
And a scared 4 year old.

Every man either getting tired of her or Leaving. Just like my father did. Grabbed his meds, His cigarettes and every porno magazine he could find. Leaving without a word.
I remember hearing a rumor going around.
That once he started to get tired of my mother, he had payed and met up with random Asian girls online.

I mean who can blame him. I would get tired of her too.
Just like I get tired of every single person i've met.
Leaving them behind or disposing of them.

He would pay them loads of money to have them fly from Korea or China or Japan just to have sex with him.
Although I don't like viewing my father in this matter, there are just some things you have to face.

My mother told me to "Snap out of it" when i was crying my eyes out, struggling to breathe, after she had hit me.
Not once, not twice, not thrice, but 5 times.
I could barely speak, but everytime i told her to go away
She kept telling me to stop exaggerating.

This was after she told me to change out of my shorts, because men would think i'm quote on quote "trying to be sexy."
All I was doing was laundry by myself in my room.

My father thought that all people who listen to podcasts are stupid, when my father listens to meditation to relax.
he's incredibly close minded.

My mother once implied to me that she believed that mental illnesses aren't as bad as people make them out to be.

My mom said to me that he was like this when they got married, and that's one of the reasons she wanted a divorce.
I believe my parents got divorced because of me.
My father almost killing me when I was only 5-6 years old.

However when I was on my phone with my father and my father wanted to speak with my mother, I gave her the phone and they got into a heated argument.
I was in the midst of it.
Trying to calm my mother, while being a scared little kid.

While crying.
That's all I ever do.
It's the only thing I know how to do.
Is cry and cry and cry and cry.

Is it normal for your mother to cry in front of you?

On movies and TV shows, i always saw your parents crying at the table at midnight, about the other person or bills or because of someone dying.

I know my parents aren't bad people, I really do.
Especially my mother, but she's only this bad because of what she grew up knowing.

The older I become, the harder it is to believe.

# data[].attributes.body
my house creaks.
the dryer is so loud and aggressive, it shakes my room.
especially at night.
i don't think my window shuts completely and the curtains are always messed up.

my house creaks and it leaks.
it has it's problems but so does everybody else.

my house has problems but it keeps a roof over my head.
my house is so much more than a roof over my head.
some of the tiles in the bathroom fell off.
there is a number of drawers missing in the kitchen.
and a few holes in the walls.

my house creaks and it leaks.
but it's so much more than a roof under my head.
and none of our furniture matches.
it's all hand me downs from other family members.
but that's never bothered me.

i love to think other kids grew up eating off of the table but i ate off of the first 13 years of my life.

i love my house.
the walls have been red and orange and brown and blue and grey.

i love these walls.
i love the floor.
but i hate and wanna get it removed because i remember every time i would do a craft in my room i spilled it onto my floor and it would create a huge ugly stain that i loved.

i would miss the stained floors and messed up curtains.

if i had to leave them.
i love my house.
because every chip of the paint watched me grow up.

it wasn't always amazing.
and i'm sure my shared bedroom knows that.
i'm sure my shared bedroom understands.

oh how i'll love to go back.

# data[].attributes.body
The words "don't leave me" and "please" and "promise" etched into my brain and in my soul. I can feel the words. I can physically feel them in my heart.

# data[].attributes.body
I pay attention to everything all of the time, even when i'm tired. Especially when i'm sad and especially when i'm happy and looking for a reason to be sad. I'll notice your body language. I can tell you're upset by the way you look at me and I know what to say and to do to help. I know exactly how to help everyone else. I know what they need to hear.

whether they need to hug, to laugh or share certain things. I know and i'll always make sure that they know i'm aware and alive. That they know i'm here for them. When no one else can see the tears in your eyes, when you stare at your fingers. I promise I can see you and I notice you. I'm here for you. And I want to help.

"The silence is loud between us" My best friend said to me once.

But many people don't like feeling observed. They don't like that I'm quiet and they don't like that I like taking care of other people and I understand.

"You ask questions that make people uncomfortable and you immediately go for the bite when wanting information or getting to know someone."

I don't like the feeling of being watched. I don't like when other people notice even though sometimes I wish they would. I can't ask for help and i don't like talking about how i feel and i don't like people like me. I know that if fully capable for doing something like that then I wont ask. It scares me. I feel like a deer.

# data[].attributes.body
do you guys ever kiss your friends?
like a real kiss?
not spin the bottle.
not get back at my ex.
like a real kiss.

i don't think kissing has to be sexual.
a lot of people aren't going to agree with me and that's okay.
but i don't think kissing has to be sexual.
i think it could be platonic.

i think i could be in love with someone and not want to kiss them and i think i can have a best friend and kiss them and enjoy it.

it's not complicated for me like it is for everyone else.
maybe it's just another way to show affection i guess.

uhm go kiss your friends with consent i guess?

# data[].attributes.body
I fucking hate men.
And no seriously I really do.
And I mean i have an okay father and yes I do have brothers as well.
And yes I do have a few guy friends.

Many of the greatest works I admire were done by men.
Many men I have nothing but respect and admiration for.

I hate men because they bask in this admiration without the haunt or the shame or the guilt.
Without the daunt of the patriarchy.
Without the daunt of standing in a pencil skirt in a room full of men because you learnt to play the game.
Without the daunt of being told "you're not like other girls."

What the fuck does that mean?

Are they seriously analyzing that my personality and instincts are alike?
Considering the absurdity of anthropology. Or did he read my thesis.

Did he see me as a human being as well?

I hate men because it took me the effort to gain what was their birthright

# data[].attributes.body
So much of my mood is based on your validation.

if you can't tell me that i'm a good person how will i know that it's true.

i'm sorry my bad-
please forgive me.
i'm so utterly and completely useless.

i'm so so so sorry for breathing in your direction.
How will i know if i'm good if you can't tell me.
but look me in my cat like eyes and tell me what you want me to do.

what do you need.
what do you want.
i'll do anything.
anything for you.
it's always been for you.
you're everything i've ever needed.
you're my world.
i want you to smile because of me again.

i wanna make you laugh again.
even if the jokes aren't funny.
i will do anything for you.

my boundaries don't matter.
i don't have boundaries.
or do i?

tell me how to feel again.
please seriously tell me how to feel.

please forgive me for something that was completely out of my control.
i won't let it happen again.

please tell me i'm a good person.
how will i know if i'm a good person.
please i need you to tell me that i'm a good person.

your smile faded so fast.
you turned around too aggressively.
you held eye contact for too long.
and not the good kind of eye contact.
the disappointing kind.

how could i ever disobey you?
i am so fucking stupid and so god damn useless.
i had one job, and i even fucked that shit right up.
you hate me.
everyone hates me.
i'm so fucking worthless and a piece of shit.
i'm such a fuck up.
i mess everything up.

i hate me.
how could i hate me?
i have such an okay life.

people tell me that they love me.
but i don't feel like they actually mean it.
that's so much more than anyone could ever ask for.

how could i be so selfish.

# data[].attributes.body
I can't help but think about how beautiful sadness is.
something inside me always felt this way.
i used to love the way sadness looked on me.
but even at a young age, i used to draw a lot.
and every person that i drew always had a happy expression. something i wanted.

however i love strong emotions.
sadness only feels sad in the moment but when i'm not sad anymore i can't help but think about how beautiful it is.

what's so beautiful about getting drunk and sobbing your eyes out until at 4:00 AM alone.
Because you convinced yourself that you should kill yourself.

what's so beautiful about losing someone you love.
and i'm not sure.
i don't think i'll ever have those answers.

but there's always been something appealing about messed up eyeliner and mascara and curling up into a ball on the floor.

was this all to cope?
am i telling myself that sadness is beautiful because i can't stand the thought of how i might look as ugly as i feel when i'm in a constant state of deep despair.

or is sadness the first stage of happiness.
a sign of hope.
i mean if i've been crying for a while then it means i'm alive.
and that i have skin and bones and blood and feelings.

and i've learned that i would much rather feel something too much for a second then feel it for a little bit too long.
this isn't a sacrifice that everyone has to make and i wonder how many people have actually thought about it.

i can go on and on and on for hours about helping bipolar shift my outlook on everything.

But it felt pointless because no matter how sad i get and how close i am to dying.
i will always.
and i mean always.
think sadess is the most beautiful art piece.

# data[].attributes.body
There was a kid who was in my class that acted exactly like i did in elementary school.

Doesn't respond to people, avoids eye contact, and they blocked out the world by doing something else.

They difference was that they used their phone instead of drawing or reading.

Watching this person really made me see why my classmates treated me the way they did.

Some congratulated me on the simplest things.

They also had a level of caution as to what they would say to me.

I even had someone say they felt bad for me in math class directly to my face.

They were doing it out of pity.

I wasn't necessarily angry at them, both me and this kid were lucky enough to live in an environment of kids that wouldn't immediately eat us alive, However it felt fake.

Now i know, there's a possibility it wasn't.
When i look at this kid, i genuinely feel bad.
i feel as if i should go up to talk to them and say hello or give a simple wave.
But i don't truly know what they're going through.
And if they were anything like me, it's not what they need.

# data[].attributes.body
You're my best friend.
You're my best friend cause you never made fun of my family for being dysfunctional.

you never judge me for having a mess house or loud dogs.
you never made me feel weird for the things that felt so natural to us.

whenever i was with you, i always felt so accepted and normal and good enough.
even when we were little kids, we spent countless summers riding our bikes around your neighborhood.

we would discover new parks and every new neighborhood as they built them around us.

when i think of summer i think of you.
I think of your sunburnt face covered in dark freckles and i think of week long sleepovers when we were 12.
I think of all the dumb stuff we did for the first time together.

i now know we spent less times on our bikes and more times in your parents car.
we would laugh at the hilarious silence that was shared between songs.

we would hands when we were scared and we would share every single detail even if they were boring.

i love you felt so small when it was about you.

oh-
it was just a dream...-

# data[].attributes.body
I'm just exceptional.
I'm not horrible but i'm not great.
I'm not hideous but i'm not gorgeous either.

I'm the bright orange and neon green leaf flower that's forever falling off of the bush and that's baking in the sun.
The humbling truth is that i'm just exceptional.

In public, i don't turn heads.
But sometimes, i catch people staring.

I don't think i'll ever be someone's "Love Of My Life" experience but maybe the person before them.

I'd like to say to my parents that they did an okay job of raising me.
Although I resent my mother with all my heart, and my father leaving me at a young age, only to come back for a small period of time.
I made these choice's with my own thoughts and emotions.
Not them.
And certainly not anyone else.

This affected the appeal of me.
Which is of course part of it.

I'm not "girl" enough for a straight boy.
and i'm not "girl" enough for a lesbian chick.
this leaves a lot of other options for me, but that's besides the point.

my personality is just exceptional as well.
I'm not super funny or overly sweet.

I'm just so
completely
underwhelming.

# data[].attributes.body
i didn't understand much of what was happening which is fine because i never really do.

my life is the delay between plugging the charger into the wall, when your phone tells you that it's charging.

just a small few seconds.
why would anyone study into that?
at least 18 humans were born within those 3 seconds.
and if 1.80% of people are dying every second.
that means that every second that it took for your phone to tell you that it is charging after plugging it into the wall at least six people too their last breath.

i hope they got to say goodbye.
i hope they weren't in pain.
but realistically hope doesn't control life.
life will do what it wants.
life has no remorse.
i hate when people don't understand the separation between life and the universe.

the universe is made up of energy and creations.
beginning and end.
life is fate.
life is logic.

# data[].attributes.body
i can't be a burn off.
i was never good enough.
the same way i can't wait to rot in the ground before life even starts.

the way i wanna give up before the beginning.
i'm constantly stuck on the thought of what had happened if.
it always lingers my mind.
day in and day out.
now a lot of people say that wondering about things that will and won't happen.

and these things will never happen.
it's useless.
but i disagree.
from an early age, we were taught that life is a competition.
you want to be the best.
the strongest.
the richest.
and if you aren't then you have failed.
such an odd concert for someone who can't even count to 10.

but they don't care.
start them young  with them hard they said.
and when you cry and scream and say no.
they ignore you.
because they wanna make you stronger.
to be stronger is to be successful.
to be traumatized.
this is to be strongest is to be lovely.

grown ups tell us that what doesn't kill us makes us stronger.
but then fail to realize it.
sometimes it does kill us.
and they're willing to take that risk because they want what's the "best" for you.

i didn't need to be stronger.
we tell them.
i needed to be protected.
they sit and they listen without hearing.
they don't want to own up for their own wrongs.
it's how their parents raised them.
why can't they do the same?

# data[].attributes.body
do i have regrets?
i don't know.
i don't know because i don't let myself feel.
i used to think i'd rather feel nothing than sadness.
but i've changed my mind.
now all i want is to feel something.
but to feel nothing to be nothing.
and i think i'd rather be nothing than something.
especially when i don't know what that something is.
with nothingness comes emptiness and then comes comfort.
when you're empty, you don't have anything to lose.
if all i wanted was to be comfortable than i should be grateful to be this empty.

# data[].attributes.body
I forget that i'm 14 because i don't feel like i am.
i feel aged every day.
Every day was 21 for me.
My life slowly going by so fast.

emotional maturity.
I don't act like i'm 14 because i don't believe that my ghost and soul are 14 as well.

maybe the trauma had an effect on me..?
maybe it made me who i am today?

either way i'm not 14.
Much too wise and old in my heart.
I know i've got so far to go.
To look forward to.
but don't undermine me because i'm just 14.

don't treat me like a kid because i'm not a kid.
is this what lead me to do the things i've done?
I've been been to an inpatient facility six times.
partial four.
before and intense twice.

if i felt like a kid.
what if have acted like one?
if i felt like a kid when i have different responsibilities with people who put less pressure on me to be who they want me to be.

would i be less bipolar than i am now?
could i have avoided all this?
is it my fault..?
will it always be my fault?
i don't know if i wanted to grow up fast before i was forced to.

but i'm being honest with i tell people that i don't remember.
i wish i could.
but i just don't.

it's just not in my brain.

# data[].attributes.body
it was curiosity over fear.
fear could have saved her.
but now all she can think about is "just one more time"
when you're scared of drugs you're safe.

people that are scared of drugs don't take it.
they don't need it to have fun.
they don't have friends who do it.
but once you take that chance.

she then realized that it won't kill her and she convinced herself that she had it under control.

that's just the start.
then she started feeling safer with them than without them.

throwing up and passing out isn't nearly as scary. as it is when she was little.

she blacked out of the first time. and you thought she was dying. but when she woke up, you googled "can weed kill you?"

when she had a pounding headache, and couldn't stop throwing up.

then harder drugs.
some white powder that made
her resting heart rate go from 140 into 260.

a tab that made her see into another dimension.
when in reality, she was just sitting on the bathroom floor.

the bathroom she grew up in.
just staring at the walls for hours on end.
once she felt safer with them then without them.

she was too deep in.

# data[].attributes.body
people talk about how sweet young love is.
mine wasn't.
what counts as young?
oh well were running out of time.
for the most part.
young love isn't sweet.
it's barley enjoyable.
no one knows what to do.
how to act.
or how to communicate.
with maturity comes experience.
so why is there so much pressure to fall in love so young??
I don't wanna get my heart broken.
honestly I was too young to get my heart broken.
I didn't understand how to love or take care of someone.
I didn't even know how to take care of myself.
my first love was a girl.
she was tall and a brunette.
she was so nice to me.
and I loved how nice she was to me.
the morning after she broke up with me, I felt like I couldn't breath.
my lungs were so empty but so heavy.
I was way down in my mattress.
I couldn't get up.
I couldn't shower or eat.
I could barely breathe.
so why do people say that love is so special?
why do you even tell me that?
it honestly took me a while to get over it.
I still catch myself wondering why I felt so much pressure to be in a relationship.
when honestly I didn't even wanna be in one.
young love isn't something I want.
I wanna fall in love.
when I'm 28.
I wanna have an apartment with someone and I wanna dance in our kitchen.
I want the love that I can drive around in on the weekends and come home to on the weekdays.
so it's never too late to fall in love, right??

# data[].attributes.body
I saw that you called.
and even though I didn't answer.
I thought about it.
I'm scared to hear your voice.
I'm scared I won't be able to listen to you talk without crying.

I don't know how to start a sentence.
when I'm around you, my mind races on and on with our past emotions tied to specific things.

because of you, like the letter A even though your name started with an E.

last time we spoke, I would have done anything for you. which is what scares me. I don't wanna go backwards. and I don't wanna get worse. and that's what you made me wanna do.

you made me think it was okay to die at 12.
you made me feel like it was okay to give up on my life.
a life that so many people tried to keep alive.
I loved you.

I loved you like you were a part of my body.
and I don't really sleep on the floor anymore.
because they remind me of that night.

what was I thinking?!
I Don't think I was even thinking.
I think I was hoping.
hoping that that night was when we would stick together forever.

I was so tired.
and your texts were so comforting.
I would have died if I had never met you.
Or rather I would've killed myself if I had never met you.
and I think about what could have been different.

but I don't think I would be alive.
I'm sorry I didn't answer the phone.
and I hope your okay.
I just don't wanna die anymore.

# data[].attributes.body
I don't wanna have someone else's smile.

I'm tired of looking at other people and wishing that they looked like them.

I wanna have a smile like mine and have it just be good enough.

I wanna look at myself in photos or in the mirror and be content and okay with what I see.

I'm not saying I hate myself.
I'm just saying its exhausting, imagining how much more I like myself with features of other people.

I need to know that my nose is okay.
my eyes are okay.
even when I squint, my smile is perfect.
no matter how much I hate it.
I'm perfect.
I'm perfect.

and I'll repeat that thought on loop until I believe it.

# data[].attributes.body
I can't write about love that was in the past.

I can't write about love that was tainted with tears and exhaustion.

because that isn't love anymore.
and when I think about what it was like to touch your face. I don't feel warm.

I don't feel happy.
I feel nothing.

when I think about your laugh, or the way your house smells or the way it felt to hug you.

I feel nothing.
I can't write about love that was in the past because when I think of it, I try my best to feel nothing.

because feeling nothing is always going to be better than feeling sad or regret.

and nothing is always going to be better then trying to pretend what we had was amazing.

# data[].attributes.body
One day I will be a drunk college student and i'll be with a group of people who sort of love me.

I'm not anyone's first choice.
But I'm not anyone's last.
And that makes me smile.
We'll walk from bar to bar.

Stumbling over each other and laughing until we literally can't breathe.

Someone will be our designated parent.
And I'll finally feel loved.
And it's not the vodka or the drugs.

It's just in that moment, I was able to think clearly.

I won't see the past or the future.
Just the present.
Just my friends.
And how beautiful they look when they're laughing.

And how funny it is when one of them falls.

And how warm I feel when I realize that all the trouble and pain was worth it.

This is the beginning of something new.
Something undescribable
My life finally starting.
And the pain in the past, seems so worth it.

The pain in the future is so untouchable.
But I'm ready.
I feel ready.
I think I'm ready.

# data[].attributes.body
I like the feeling of the color black.

black as in black light.

don't turn off this light at night.

white sheets with you inside them.

more safe than warm and so comfortable.

your smile lingers on my sheets the day you leave.

but I can't stop smiling because you were at my place.

at your place the lights are red but they still never turn off.

and even if it isn't warm, it's still safe.

I hope your pillow is laced with my smell and that when you wake up you smile.

and when you cry, you have something to hold.

and I hope you don't get cold, in your own room without me.

when we're able to look at each other and understand, I know I finally found something permanent because I love the feeling of the color black.

but only when the color black is you.

# data[].attributes.body
it's hard to hear.
its almost impossible to belive.
but someone who loves you doesn't make you feel like that.

I think we're so good at blaming ourselves to the point where it's almost hard to understand That sometimes it isn't our fault.

we're constantly accusing other people's actions because you know maybe they didn't mean it like that.
or they're having a bad day.
or it was just a joke.

we're so God damn sensitive..-

but someone who loves you.
who genuinely cares about you.
wouldn't make you feel like that.

they wouldn't take out their bad day on you.

they wouldn't say things to hurt you just for a laugh.

someone who loves you, doesn't make you feel bad for treating yoh like shit.

it's hard to put yourself before other people.

but it's so easy to put ourselves last.

but someone who loves you doesn't make you feel that way.