strip away this girl.

give her pink nail polish, instead of black.

let her read magazines instead of philosophies.

give her coffee with cream and two sugars; black seems too bitter.

let her bury herself between rose fragrances and blush eyeshadows.

give her hope that sweet will cut the bitterness. even though we know, bitter starts at a young age, when someone decided you weren’t too young to learn adult-things. 

trade in the clash for radio hits.

laugh, smile, laugh, smile…just get used to it.

trade in her poetry journal entries for the ridiculous journals in the stores that say, you’ve got this or boss. 

…you’ll get used to this.

give her hope this hole in her heart, six feet deeper every year, can be fixed by brainwashing herself to be happy. 





keep the letters.

the letters

handwritten, desperate

pleas i handed you

you didn’t even care

enough to read


you kept the letters

those muddled

sleepless nights

drowning in anxiety

words that will condemn me


i wish i’d never talked to you

on those school steps

when you softly lied

and i believed you

because i wanted to


no one will love you

you don’t have a soul

sold it into slavery for

drugs, rock + roll

and your eyes are blackened


keep the letters

they are a past

i’d rather forget

but i hope you never forget

the soul you tried to corrupt














he touches my back

whispers in my ear

touches my thigh,

says since we’re family,

he can do whatever he wants

when I asked him to stop


told I wasn’t skinny enough,

told I was psycho,

told I was a mute,

catcalled and made fun of

never was the pretty girl

never was the untouchable girl



the clique doesn’t accept

a new presence,

even if it’s been there for ages

they told me to go away,

laughed in my face.


afraid to leave the house;

afraid to be alone

he’s everywhere, he’s watching

he knows everything

he could ruin me in a moment

I close the blinds tighter


and, everyone asks me

why I don’t like to be touched

why I hate superficial girls and guys

and I just shrug

they tell me to not be so guarded;

and I just nod, not really listening



so, I hold a razor in the shower

and I think of about dying

I think of him, him, and him;

of her, her, and her

and I could blame all of them

but, I’m to blame, aren’t I?