sorry.

Disappointment.

I cry out my frustration; trying not to break the mirror in front of me.

Liar.

I panic at night, and know I don’t deserve trust anymore.

Terrible influence.

I compartmentalize my personality, so I can’t ruin anyone else.

Bad, bad, bad.

I throw up, unable to take it anymore. The feeling washes down the toilet, and I know it’ll be back soon.

The feeling of hatred. I hate her. The girl I am.

No one believes I’m going to try to change. Or, how much I cry…hot, messy tears about how I’ve screwed up.

Does life ever get better? Do people understand mistakes? Do you see I’m struggling to get by?

Guilt gnaws at my bones.

And, all I can say is I’m trying, and that I’m sorry for the girl I’ve become.

So, so sorry.

 

 

 

 

 

Advertisements

change.

I am the girl who calculates the risks,
who writes poetry about life,
who sips her tea and tries to
decide if she even has a future.
I am a
flight risk, with a fear of failing.
fear of falling
in love
I hate change,
you came along with your
mischievous ocean eyes,
musical soul,
and spindly hands
and told me
change
could knock the breath out of you

now, I write poetry for you,
I sip my tea and dream
of you
(boy, with the calm persona)
and, maybe this time I won’t have to run
or bury it away, because I
romanticize and I become overly jealous at times
because, you’ve taught me
change is beautiful

 

guardian.

i am a ghost as i walk through

my room and see a little girl

she cries, and no one knows why

but i do…

 

i pick her up

and wipe the matted hair from her face

i tell her no more tears

as i wipe the ones swelling in my own eyes

 

we drive for ice cream

and i play the speak now album

she sings quietly; she knows all the lyrics

but so do i…

 

i snuggle her in blankets

and turn on her favorite movies

i never let her go

and she clings to me tightly

 

i tell her,

it gets better from here

but she can’t hear me;

she’ll still grow up to be me…

 

 

 

waterlogged.

salt water stains on my shirt
trickling down my cheeks
an angel with blonde hair
and a red dress
calmed me, rinsed
my face with cold water
now no one will know,
she said with a sad smile.

I live in yellow tiled floors
lemon, lavender scented
stalls with a seat for one
girls whisper their secrets here
in my kingdom of stifled sobs
sink water
fake smiles
(I imitate my blonde angel’s)

I watched a little girl cry
gloomily, I rinse her face
now no one will know
I whisper; she goes on
I was her caramel angel
but I wasn’t an angel
my halo was flushed away
my wings are saturated

sometime long ago
a blonde girl was trained
to hide her feelings
and I wonder why she cried
why I cry
why the little girls cries
and why we try to
wash it down the sink.

we weren’t angels,
so fallen, so waterlogged
we couldn’t even reassure
someone they were alright
because we weren’t alright
all along we were demons
who hid on yellow tiles floors
that smelled of bleach
(we should’ve licked it up)

Dear Someone XXXVI

Dear Someone,

I want a new main character in young adult fiction.

One who doesn’t fall in love.

One who deals with bullies, and the worst bully is herself.

She tries to be everything everyone wants her to be, and crumbles more and more ever day.

You see it throughout the book. Her thought process.

She starts on top. Yet–page by page, negative connotations and anxiety, take you on the journey of her mind.

And, by the end she’s sitting in the ruins of her life.

She wonders how she got her, and she wants to blame everyone else.

But–you know.

It was her.

Love,

Liv

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

gas station girl.

navy blue skies
filled with ashy clouds
threatening rain
humid air;
it’s clammy hands
grabbing at her skin

thriving on
Arizona teas
and gas station
florescent lights
driving around in the
beat up car

trying to get her to
pay him mind
he told her
pretty wasn’t everything
but by god,
it was something

because, pretty
is what you think of
on long nights
what you hold onto
substance of body
over substance of mind

she laughed
because, her mind is
over stimulated
and her worn body roams
from gas station to gas station,
her face set in a frown

married to the air
and the sky
married to a feeling
of freedom
to this car
not to his smoking silhouette

women.

it always confused me

that girls noticed

a look you gave a cute boy

more than the cuts on your arms

that they cared

about who you liked

more than your thoughts

 

I started asking people

less about their crushes and style

I ask about their

wellbeing, beliefs, dreams, & fears

we can talk about boys our entire lives

right now, we should focus on ourselves

become the best women we can be.