i stopped.

i stopped finding

soft, meaningful poetry

in your footsteps

and the cracked driveways

 

i stopped looking

for you

in crowded rooms

and my coffee’s reflection

 

i stopped asking my friends

if they were happy

they wear dark circles for makeup

and coffee stained t-shirts

 

i stopped living when i was sixteen

i’m looking for reason

no one can tell me where it is

or if it even exists

 

 

 

 

 

Dear Someone XXIX

Dear Someone,

she’s made of wax, fighting the summer sun

dripping away into nothingness

the boys fall flat on their faces,

and I watch as she digs her stilettos into their skulls

but they still beg for one kiss off her lips

as if they were blessed

her jaded eyes are watching the crescendo of the sea

she is apart of the restless generation

she comes alive in summer air, and dies in autumn

Love,

Liv

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

once, or now

once, I was young and lively

now, I am ancient and dead

once, I fell and scrapped my arms

now, I scrap them with the razor

once, I cried when my mother left me

now, I cry when they all leave me

once, I dreamed of paradise

now, I know paradise is lost

and, sometimes I ask myself

where are you little girl?

and she cries from a corner in my mind

so far out of reach

hidden with the color pink and dresses

with the dolls and the Narnia obsession

with the smiles and ribbons and glitter

my heart hurts to touch the things

my soul cringes and steps back

and I find myself in the pitch black world

filled with weapons and boundaries

with poems and bullies and high school angst

and suicide notes and boys who didn’t give a damn

I cannot figure out if once, or now are relevant

because sometimes, I’m breathing

but my breath is not off my lips

and my body has no feeling at all

 

 

 

Dear Someone XXI

Dear Someone,

I used to be afraid to say things like, ‘anxiety’ and ‘depression.’

My whole life, I’d been told they were sins. Only those people in the medical commercials dealt with them.

So, when I was asked if I was depressed in middle school, I said no. “No, no, no, I’m not sick, I’m just a little sad.” I lied and lied.

But, sadness isn’t tearing yourself apart. Sadness isn’t crying yourself to sleep every night. Sadness isn’t hiding in the bathroom and feeling sick. Sadness isn’t pushing away people. Sadness isn’t the overwhelming numb and loneliness.

“She’s just shy.” I hid under that crutch for years. “She grew up, and changed to a shy human being.” I believed that lie.

I lived for six years hopelessly. I broke off friendships. I have communication issues. I prepared myself for no future. I lost all my drive, and my grades showed it.  I stopped dreaming somewhere along the line; told myself I wasn’t good enough at anything. I stopped hoping for love to find me.

I gave myself over to terrible things. I self harmed and I formed addictions. I fight them every day, and they win.

And then–my grandpa passed away…and I felt like I lost everything. In the months that followed, the boy I loved left me, my friend and I had a huge fight and called it quits, and I lost the boy I considered a brother.

I isolated myself in a corner. I talked to few people. I opened up less and less.

A guy preyed upon it. He fed me lies and dark, dark thoughts. I dabbled in things I’d like to leave out. He was other half of me, but the hideous side I’d tried to hide for years.

The poetry grew darker and darker. That would save me in the end, I guess.

I hated myself. Nothing helped. The pain was unbearable. So, I started to take pills to help me fall asleep. It helped some. It got harder to wake up and harder to function. My heart was drowning. My soul– it felt dead. One day, I planned to take too many. I had them in hand. The guy promised we could runaway together soon so I shouldn’t; I postponed it. Those pills are still in reach.

My parents found the poetry. They found a lot of it. Ambushed me. Forced me into therapy (that or they would take me away, and that caused me to panic.)

And the lies I had hid behind came crashing down. Diagnosed with major anxiety and major depression.

My parents are overprotective now, more than they were. My siblings make ‘mental’ jokes. My friends that know, I like to hide from them–I’m ashamed of who I am. My best friend, is there for me thank God.

The youth pastor, suffered from minor anxiety, and apologized. My heart tore in two, and I stopped going to church. Because, how I was supposed to feel loved in a place that thought people like this were ‘weird?’

And, I still self harm and feed my addictions. Just because I’m in therapy doesn’t mean I’m miraculously better.  I love someone I shouldn’t. I think about killing myself. I suffer from panic attacks. I sometimes cannot sleep, and other days I sleep for too long.

But, I’m getting there. I hope one day to smile again with genuineness. I can’t even remember what it feels like anymore.

I didn’t write this so people can feel bad for me. Screw that. I wrote it to raise awareness. I wrote it to the people who need help and aren’t getting it, because they’re believing some stupid lie society has fed us.

Just because you’re suffering, doesn’t mean you’re crazy. You’re as human as everyone else.

Love,

Liv

 

 

 

Dear Someone XVIII

Dear Someone,

we might all know the definition of free
but who you are today
is a result of someone
who like you, were influenced

and your grandma was abused
and your mother bullied
and your dad was a rebel
and your grandpa didn’t have a dad at all

you’re a result of the failings and glories
because, they learned that life is give and take
and you are never “free”
and that giving into their wishes is easier

I think that bothers you
you are more than mediocre life
and paying bills and making money
and sinking away until you die nameless

being free, screw that
you are going to take from life,
rise above stereotypes of being a childbearing matron,
and having a 9 to 5 job

being human, screw that
you are the sun for someone
and the rain for others
breathing and seeing others for who they are.

and you won’t hide your past from your children
because you think they can’t handle it
they need to know you’re real and alive
and they’re not alone.

Love,

Liv

Dear Someone XVI

Dear Someone,

 

I am feminist.

not because I hate men

or I think we deserve better than them

 

but because

I want to see my daughter thrive

and not crumble before 16

 

to walk with her head high and not in fear

because someone might hurt her

like I have for years

 

to not be ashamed of her body

because some boy told her she should be skinny

like I have for years

 

to stop dreaming

because someone told her it was impossible

like I have for years

 

I want her to be free

and to look into her eyes and be proud of her decisions

like I wish my mother would look at me

 

and those boys will say,

“her beauty is pure, because of her strong-will,”

like I wish they would’ve believed about me.

 

Love,

Liv

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dear Someone XIV

Dear Someone,

I sat in the empty truck-bed looking at the sky. Mid-air and the breeze makes my tears feel frigid on my cheeks.

You are too young. I tell myself. 16. You’re a cynic who thinks the world is terrible place and cried for too many people.

You are too young to know about broken hearts and numbing the pain of it.

You are too young to want to die. Yet–you think about killing yourself every day. (Don’t tell the therapist, she’ll send us away and then the rumor will start.)

You are too young to be hurt and feel sick to your stomach for no reason.

We are such a cracked youth. Some of us are still intact; the perfect, the blameless; they make sick with their judgmental stares. Some of us have not been so lucky; we are the abused, the used, the mental; we understand this world more than some adults.

So, I may be too young to feel this. But–I’d rather feel it then be obvious.

Love,

Liv