How?

Dear grown women,
I’ve heard you question
My red lips
Winged eyeliner
Three layers of foundation 

And the way I’ve tried to conceal my bare reality
You tell me that the only way I’ll be accepted is if I learn to accept myself.
I am nothing but sorry as I ache to ask you
How do you explain self-acceptance
To a generation taught beauty is pain
To a generation taught that the only way they’ll be considered beautiful
Is if they procure the unachievable perfection
Found on the front pages of magazines
How?

Dear grown men,
I’ve seen the way you look at me
The way you think I bid you to force yourselves upon me
By wearing shorts the length of what you consider ‘inviting’
I am nothing but sorry as I ache to ask you
How do you explain ‘appropriate’
To a generation taught that clothing
Is just another way of expressing?
What if I told you I feel naked?
What if I told you I pay heed to the way you try to x-ray
Your way to the insides of my clothing
What if I told you that this is me expressing myself
What now?
How?

Dear old generation,
I am nothing but sorry as I ache to ask you
How do you expect me to take the blame
For a trying to please a generation you raised?

I’m scared it’ll be just you.

That’s what really scares me.
Falling in love is easy. Having sex is easier. But bumping into someone that can spark your soul - that shit is rare.

You could have sex with four, five, all the people in a god damned room and you’d only feel a connection with one. Or none at all.

And what sucks is despite the undeniable real magnetic pull between the two of you, more often than not, you don’t end up together.

I’m afraid I won’t meet anyone else I can connect with.

I’m scared it’ll be just you.

A museum of feelings.

A museum of feelings, I walk around with the words printed all over my face disguised as sad excuses for expressions.
Vulnerability put on display like a five foot tall girl made of straws, they call it “emotion”.
When tears roll down my face, I tell myself I’m finally feeling. 

Turns out they’re just a ticket for you to enter my tempest and destroy it!
A museum of feelings, I call my anatomy.
Everyone’s welcome here. Go on, feel me.
My anxiety is almost as beautiful as a fake Mona-Lisa with a bad frame.
My sadness, like listening to a decade old rusted trumpet over the sound of modern music. (Ew. Who likes that anyway?)
People walk past and pick at insecurities as if they were six year olds pointing at naked women’s paintings, and then they stare at their feet.
I hold up my sadness with pride as if it were a masterpiece.
As fragile as a ton balancing on twine.
Passerby’s drinking my love as if it were cheap wine.
Empty halls much like my chest, locked in art just waiting to impress. 

A museum of feelings, I walk around with the words printed all over my face, disguised as sad excuses for expressions. 

Nobody likes museums anymore, oh look! it’s shut down time.

I wore too much eyeliner, it ruined my vision and I got glasses.
My lips were too chapped, I bit on them more often as they bled.
My front teeth were too crooked, I stopped smiling.
My skin was two toned with hundreds of acne scars, I wore tons of foundation.
I left my hair open to hide behind it.
Last Friday, I threw away my glasses and got contact lenses.
I stopped biting my lips and bought myself some lip balm.
I embraced my crooked teeth and laughed all day.
I realized my acne scars look like stars waiting to be put to constellations.
I got a new pixie haircut.
I think I'm happier now.
But I don't think I'm myself anymore.

you know you're not alright
when you wake up in the morning
and your first thought is
"damn! im still alive"
and your second thought is
"ouch! i still feel pain"
third thought is
"How should i make it stop?"
fourth thought is
"chuck it, I just wanna end this crap once and for all"

I always wished I could be a little kid again.

And in all those cruel, difficult moments I encountered, I always wished I could be a little kid again. Not because everything was easier when you were a child; not because you weren't responsible for anything including yourself; not even because life was much more simple, but simply because you had all the rights to scream, to shout, to cry your heart out whenever you felt like it without having anyone blaming you for not being strong:

You can wail the moment you feel that you miss or need anyone. You can scream when you're afraid. You can cry when you're left alone. You have all the rights to weep when it's your first day at school and you're alone and terrified from this sudden change that took place in your life. 

If you're a kid, you won't have to fake a smile when your insides are burning just to seem strong and fine! Back then, you had all these rights — until they started telling you that you're a 'grown-up' now and you shouldn't be crying; that you should be strong and responsible; that you might be dying from inside but still you must manage to smile. 

I just don't mind losing that 'grown-up' title if that's all I have to lose in order to regain my childhood life and my childhood rights again. I just wish it were possible. Because having to act as a grown up can be very painful sometimes.

Love

I don’t know if love meant screaming at each other till out throats died out, our words like knives piercing through the promises we made.

I don’t know if love meant standing at the top of the tallest building we could find, shouting 'I love you.

I don’t know if love was a war. 

Picking out each flaw so flawlessly. 

Our swords passing through the so-called-trust we wore for shields, our silence, the bullets shot through the sad metaphors for bodies we called ours.

Or maybe, love was comfort, a warm body, a home to come back to.

25 reasons not to date a poet.

1. If you date a poet everyone will think you are the jerk they are writing about.
2. You will be the jerk they are writing about.
3. They have deep conversations with Animals, Clouds, and Grecian Urns.
4. Excessive use of “poetry hands.”
5. Excessive abuse of “poetic licence.”
6. Excessive use of “melancholy.
7. ”Excessive use of “dramatic emphasis.”
8. All of their furniture are positioned around windows, for them to stare out for hours at a time.
9. Your parents will think they are possessed.
10. They are possessed.
11. You will lose all arguments, or feel so guilty from causing them more emotional pain, you will wish you had lost.
12. They will secretly judge your metaphors.
13. They carry a notebook everywhere and let everyone see it but you.
14. You will never know if they agree with you or are just following you down the rabbit hole to see how crazy you are.
15. They will visit other rabbit holes.
16. They can’t keep secrets. It will come out thinly veiled and mythologized in their poetry.
17. It takes a least a week to a year for them to form their opinion, and that opinion is subject to change, because they are always questioning themselves.
18. They don’t understand why if murder, rape, slavery, and genocide are illegal, then why is war legal?
19. They will  make you empty out your head and heart like junk drawers and question everything in them.
20. They can not live without passion.
21. There will be drama.
22. They crave plot twists.
23. Their greatest fear is no will understand their allusions.
24. Their euphemisms will never measure up.
25. But the most important reason never to date a poet is that poetry is an addiction, and before you know it, you will be the addict in search of your next metaphoric hit of universal truth."

Numb.

Through my tears
I have come to feel
pain and loss
mourning and grieving
I have also know
love and happiness
and light and stars
but the sad thing is
happiness comes in small waves
and sadness comes in tsunamis
so before i can be winded
by my life's sudden change in course
i become numb
instead.

They were beautiful..

She was beautiful 

not due to the shape

of her body

or the way she was 

always perfectly made up

She was beautiful 

because her crooked smile

lit up the whole world

and her obnoxious laugh 

was contagious

He was beautiful 

but not in the way 

his face was chiseled perfectly

Or how he wore his clothes

He was beautiful 

because he was a kind soul

to anyone he met

and his half smile affected 

everyone

They were beautiful 

not because

they did everything right

or we're perfect

They were beautiful 

because the scars on their skin

never seemed to fade,

the scars were a sign 

of an internal battle

one they never ceased to fight

They were beautiful 

because they still found a reason 

to smile and laugh 

like they used to 

as if nothing was wrong 

they were beautiful 

because they simply existed 

and haven't stopped as yet

Relapse #2 : Isn't physical pain better than emotional pain?

I don't understand why some people say you shouldn't hurt yourself.
I mean, people hurt each other all the time, so why can't I hurt myself once in a while.. ?
I own me.. Its my hand.. Ill do whatever i want with it..
I will feel my own pain and look at my own scars.
So, don't tell me not to hurt myself.
People hurt each other all the time, so why can't I hurt myself once in a while.. ?

9 Thoughts

( Because 9 is my new favourite number.)

One
I hate myself. 

Two
I'm scared to sleep at night because whenever I close my eyes it's as if the ruthless words of hatred and disgust that were thrown at me relentlessly replay over and over in my head as if it was a broken record perched on the top of a dusty shelf that isn't within a reachable distance. 

Three
I don't know who I am anymore. I lost her somewhere within this sea of sadness I plunged myself into.

Four
Fat, Ugly, Worthless, Useless. Fat, Ugly, Worthless, Useless. Fat, Ugly, Worthless, Useless. These are the words that taunt me everyday and latch onto me like a blood thirsty leech that just found a new piece of flesh to feed off on.

Five
Whenever somebody tells me to be who I am and that they won't judge. I laugh. I laugh because being who I am is just a distant memory. I cant be who I am because I lost who I was in fifth grade when I skipped my first meal, when I learned what it felt like to genuinely hate myself, when I first put that razor on my left hand and drew lines over lines that glistened crimson, when I learned how to numb myself so that I feel nothing at all. Now here I am in present time, curled up in a ball of my own self pity, crying out all the feelings I wish I had. 

Six
Some days, I wish I could find the me that loves me, but I can't because the horrid words that were uttered to me stabbed me over and over again relentlessly and when you finally walked away, i stood there bleeding out all the love and trust i used to have.

Seven
I hate telling people how I really feel because they take it as a yearning for attention, not a cry for help. I hate telling people how I feel because they would treat me as if I was a problem and not a human.

Eight
I just wish that someone would paint on me as if I were a blank canvas and turn me into something magnificent because I am tired of continuously painting red lines on myself in hopes that my tear-stained cheeks, lifeless eyes, and pain will turn me into the beautiful girl society expects me to be. 

Nine
I just wish I was normal.

I drank because it was a little less toxic
Than the sensation of drowning
Swaying to the music I could forget
The waves pulling me under for a moment

I searched for comfort
Among cold, hallow people
Bones had never shown love
And that didn't change

I was left to my pernicious thoughts
Little girls shouldn't be morbid
But women aren't made of love
Though it is a common misconception

"Philosophers, 
for 
example, 
often 
fail 
to 
recognize 
that 
their 
remarks 
about 
the 
universe 
apply 
also 
to 
themselves
and 
their 
remarks.
If
the 
universe 
is 
meaningless, 
so
is 
the 
statement 
that 
it 
is 
so.
If 
this 
world 
is 
a 
vicious
trap, 
so
is 
its 
accuser, 
and 
the 
pot
is 
calling 
the kettle black."

"We 

seldom 

realize, 

for 

example 

that

our 

most 

private

thoughts 

and 

emotions 

are 

not 

actually 

our

own.

For 

we 

think 

in 

terms 

of 

languages 

and 

images 

which 

we 

did

not

 invent, 

but 

which 

were 

given

to 

us 

by 

our

society."

Almosts

I have never feared big words only those who refused to use them

And those words rolled off your tongue like honey

I was hooked

Language became our way of communication

And I know that everyone uses language to communicate

But ours was different

As if in between the letters and the words there was a secret message which only we could decipherer

My days were filled with the sound of your voice

And your nights were littered with the loops of my hand writing

We exchanged our favorite words, mine being illuminating and your being eternity

And our least favorite, mine moist and yours almost and when I asked you why you said because 

Almost had failed potential

That it represented our ability to just not be good enough

That we had come to the brink of something beautiful, but felt short so many times, we crafted a word for it

But even we with our supposedly mastery of the English language were not immuned to the short coming of our vocabularies

Words can only help you if you speak them

I never told you that I loved you

You never told me that you were dying

Five easy words that would have shattered our world

I love you I think, I have a brain tumor

You know still to this day I do not know the details

Because medical jargin has never fit right in my mouth

And even now five years later it feels like an invasion of your privacy

But I do know I have poured over our conversations searching for the secret message that you certainly tried to send me

And I am sorry! But I only almost found it.

Salt water is not good for paper and my tears worked your words

After come serious consideration I decided to change my least favorite word, because while moist is gross, malignant is malicious!

Malignant is uncontrollable means a phone call and the phrase he didn’t wake up

Malignant is messy and unfair and a thief

Malignant means I never got to say good bye

Malignant is the cause of almost,

Because you were on the brink of something beautiful,

But you couldn’t quite reach it and you fell too far.

I am so sorry I wasn’t there to catch you

I hope your heaven is a library

And I hope it is void of almosts