3 A.M

 

3 A.M. and I’m wondering if you’re up;

if you’re alive,

holding on by a thread,

like I am,

and the hours dwindle by slowly.

 

I’m talking to my ceiling,

and thinking it’s you,

yet the ceiling doesn’t

have your warmth

but it has the same blank stare

and pasty coloring.

 

So, I keep telling it how I miss

the way we would

scribble our names on each other’s hands

and how you’d kiss my cheek softly

or we we’d sit on the roof and

you’d tell me I was prettier than the night sky.

 

and, I tell it I wish you wouldn’t

have seen me hit rock bottom

I wish I would’ve let you hold me that one night

I told you to go away and never come back

and how you listened…

and I haven’t seen you since.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

self-love.

maybe,

I wasn’t beautiful in the sense of unblemished skin, or how my outfits weren’t put together; how I snorted when I laughed, or how I clumsily walked through life.

but,

I collected my tears in jars, to be remembered but not dwelled on. I let the scars heal, and watch the new skin cover my self hatred. I opened the windows of my heart, and let joy seep through.

and,

I’m slowly learning that beauty is found in the excitement in my eyes when I’m about to climb a roof. In the tips of my hair dyed teal, because I wanted it. In the slight tremble in my hands when I’m nervous, and the bruises on my knees from unknown adventures. In my voice when I’m talking to someone I love.

That was beauty. I had looked at self-love all wrong all these years.

It wasn’t how my collar bones showed, or how I painted my nails.

It was the inner beauty, that I found and could be proud of.

 

Anger.

I clench my fists, trying to stop the shaking; trying to stop the anger.

Anger. It consumes me of late. Courses through my veins, and I want to bleed it out of myself.

I want to let it go. I want to move on. Yet–I see faces that taunt me and I break down into tears.

I look at my body, and feel tainted. I tear it apart.

I want to scream at the top of my lungs and run as long as I can. I want my lungs to burn and for my feet to bleed.

 

 

a rant.

i feel as if i’m drifting in and out of life lately. i’m not really here, and when i am i make a mess.

is that my anxiety? or just me? i never know anymore…i say it’s my anxiety but maybe i’m using it as an excuse, because i don’t want to face the truth that i’m a terrible person.

i want to get better. i say that to myself when i’m alone in my bed.

i’m rebuilding someone, who i can’t even remember. did i dream? did i like books THAT much? what did i do with all the time i sleep and hurt myself with now? who did i trust? what is trust? am i supposed to love them? why can’t i love them? what did i write about, and can i even write now?

meanwhile, i’m trying to keep my friends. i keep pushing my problems on them by being irrational. i keep pushing myself away. i keep screwing up.

i just–feel like i’m falling apart. sorry to rant. i didn’t know where else i could say this.

 

 

 

You See Me Differently

 

You say I’m crazy, untrustworthy, and sensitive.

You say I have too many trust issues, low-self esteem, and bad judgement.

I wish you were wrong, but you’re right…I’m all of those things.

Do you know how many people I’ve let in? Not many. This girl without makeup, that tries not to cry because she’s lonely and trying to not give into the anger that swells inside her soul.

You don’t see the same girl I see in the mirror. You hold my hand, and don’t look at my wrist slashed with scars. You hold me, and don’t see me shudder because intimacy scares me. Your naivety reminds me of the girl I used to be. Before, I remembered things and I let my past hold me down.

Yet–your naiviety frustrates me. You expect too much of me. I try to explain it to you, and you don’t grasp the concept.

Somehow, I’ll get over it, I promise myself on some abandoned road and you’re a thousand miles not even thinking about me.

But, your eyes are the only thing that are constantly are on my mind.

 

 

 

I Don’t Know…

I know you don’t understand me,

how I tell you Grecian myths relating to the constellations,

how the smell of books and coffee is somewhat of a drug to me,

how I drift into a eerie silence and I lose myself in a daydream,

how I strive for perfection, but never ask it of anyone else.

I worry too much about everything under the sun.

You tell me to relax, but it’s hard to tell myself everything will be alright.

And, I don’t know if this will work out, but–I’d like to hope it will.