the fastest

You were screaming the lyrics that I loved
but had never heard,
and my greasy hair was sticking to my shoulders
and shining like gold in the sunlight.
I tucked it behind my ear
as the freeway was speeding by
and I wanted to whisper, “Slow down,
we’ll be home too soon,”
but you would never have slowed
because you always loved being the fastest.


If I had asked you how you knew that you loved me,
you would have said, “Because it hurts.”
And I already knew that pain too well
—-because I was pulling out my hair in the shower
—-and biting back tears
every time you turned your back on me.
I already knew how much it ached
——–to be missing you
——–and hating you at the same time,
and no amount of crying into my pillow changed you.
Time was torturing me:
I had forgotten how it felt to smile,
how it felt to sing to a love song,
how to stop crying so I could sleep.
I seemed to forget everything
————————except you.
And even though you hugged me,
———with tear stained eyes,
admitting, “I love you,”
———(as if I hadn’t known all along),
you still left me empty when you walked out.
——For months I thought I was living without you,
but I wasn’t living at all,
———-and I knew this when
his lips touched mine and they weren’t right
because they weren’t yours.
I wanted to tell you that I missed you,
———————————(needed you),
but my friends
convinced me that you were cancer of the heart.
And it wasn’t until you lifted me up
almost a year later,
————–kissed my face
——and told me (finally) that you were sorry,
that I realised that if love was hurt,
like you said,
then you were hurting me more than I could handle.
But, if loving you was hurt,
then I would bathe my body in pain
——–before giving you up
——— (again).


I am angry because:
people don’t take me seriously
—— and they say that I would look better with shorter hair
——-just because they like shorter hair.
And they stare at me with sympathy
when they tell me how sad it is that I don’t want kids,
but I hate children.                    (That doesn’t matter).
I can listen to the same song twenty times in a day
but I can’t keep reliving the same moments
—–because none of them are mine.
You still expect me to be okay with it all.
Because you want me to watch her dance
and look at her drawings and watch him be happy
but you didn’t even ask me to share my happiness.
(Which is writing by the way, just in case you never knew)
And because I can’t feel love anymore
—-(how do I show it?)
——–I don’t want love anymore.
I hate love.
Because the only thing I’ve learned about love
is that it is never for me.


My skin is too tight on my bones,
my mind is suffocating
and no one listens to me when I talk.
I feel trapped inside here,
my eyes wide open
with no one looking back at me
and an open mouth
with no one listening to me.
But I write so many words,
hoping that I won’t have to use my mouth,
but no one reads my words
and no one asks about them either.
I am words
written on bricks
that no one reads.
I am words
that don’t need to be said.
(don’t want to be heard).


I am broken promises and lost memories in
a body that is not desired
and a mind that is homesick for somewhere else.
in this world
in between now and then,
never moving. Always still.
Waiting for something to change:
anything and everything.
Waiting for something to be different
But everything is always the same
and I am never going to change
I will always look and be
like this.


I have to keep reminding myself that you didn’t come to my Birthday
and you never read my poetry
even though poetry is easy to read.
And you didn’t come over that time I needed you
but I am always there when you need me.
I’ve come to understand how people can be disposable
because you treat me like a used tissue:
you only come to me when you have no one left.

You didn’t come to my Birthday.

bloody lips

I use my own blood for lipstick
     because everyone tells me how pretty my personality is -
           I want my insides on my face
so I can be pretty there too.
And my sister never had to prick her finger for red lips
   because she doesn’t need ruby red lips like I do
everyone notices her beauty.
She’s a piece of art, my sister,
    and people want her in their paintings
        and in their photos.
  I’m the other one – the second one,
the one shaking with anger,
the one whose sadness is under the carpet.
But at least I’ll have nice lips,
even though they’re cracked,
     at least they’ll glow.
 You don’t have to hug me
and tell me that it’ll all be okay
like you do to her every single time we visit,
becuase my loneliness is my reality
and her loneliness is only an illusion.
Instead, I’ll stay up every night until 3am,
the darkness comforts me more than you ever did
and the cold has taught me more than you have.
       No one wants to kiss my bloody lips
hers look fuller.
I’ve forgotten how to steal love
but I don’t even know if I want it back.