dinner guest

i am quickly reacquainted with my year 8 depression
more familiar with who i am when i am no one to everyone
more familiar with myself when rolled eyes hint at a perceived lack of self-awareness
i am not thankful and i have never adopted kindness
i am graced by my guest more commonly known as Hypocrisy
and stupid dreams that died when i tried to
i let everyone take home a different clone of me because i don’t need her
and i never loved her
there is nothing genuine about this and my fingers have been crossed for eight years.


pretend people poetry

i used to have a green jumper
and a blue, pink, yellow …
i wish i could mourn the tasteless poetry i no longer get to read
no longer have the privilege to pretend to feel
or the wasting goodbyes i spit too frequently years too late
but i can’t step outside in my green jumper
because i’m covered in your gall to call me selfish,
ugly, worthless, i am covered in the low self-esteem gifted to me
i wish i could mourn the pretend people poetry
and the way medicine drowns its eyes in foggy late-night swims
it is more like carving a clay-like person inside this skin every day
because Greed for acceptance got me covered in hairline fractures

a walk across the park

i found something out
my tracing paper is what they call a lonely child
with poems bleeding from her arms, a walk across the park
i’ve written every bite of love i’ve taken from anyone
and no one wrote about me
i slipped on the tears they sketched of themselves
every possible heartbeat away from my cruelness,
no one wrote about me
a turn-around side-ways glance, i tempt fury in people too tired to grieve me
make sure not to waste the paper or time

i shed my skin hundreds of times a year but my skin sticks to the walls
i remember everything at once in a moment

tracing paper

i have wires instead of veins
and i have no tolerance for intolerance of numbness
for your desperate glorification of  emotions after loving Emptiness
i have been trapped behind tracing paper
existing on a flat plane somewhere behind a reality
one-thousand one-year-old conversations constantly on play
recreating, brainwashing myself into generations of nobodys
empty laughs and stabs in the back made me someone else, but she doesn’t exist

sewn-up disasters 

my only legacy is a poem no one read
and conversations cut short by bored
outbursts flavoured by wine, regret, and emptiness
it takes too much to fill a void
too much to fill something that is too full

when they say ‘…well, maybe
you have to count on yourself’
but I have no interest in listening to shaking heads
and numbness is on the tip of my tongue, top of my list

my torn up diary pages were in the walls
mixed up, rewritten together like forced puzzle pieces
inside my head, sewn up into little disasters
i made new places malicious and strangers
brand new unhelpful butterfly effects that made me too