Confessed but Unrequited
His face, my eyes wander with nearly every moment I’m near him
His eyes, pretty and hazel, saying so much and so little all at once
His hair, a dark brown that bounces a little with each step he takes without him knowing
He doesn’t want me
His hands, soft and feminine, but still strong and powerful—just like him
His voice, silly and sweet, and oh so comforting when I feel upset
His laugh, a soft chuckle, even when almost crying from it, and so genuine you can’t help but laugh along
He doesn’t want me
His face makes my heart skip a beat every time I see him
His name, each time it’s said, my heart races
His voice, I never want him to stop talking for as long as I live
He doesn’t want me
His smile, so genuine and so sweet and innocent it becomes contagious
His hands, I wish every day they were holding mine
His everything, I want it all. He’s so wonderful. I want it all to be mine. I want to be his.
But he doesn’t want me.
So I can’t want him, either.
A list of “I’m Sorry”s
I'm sorry I act like a 5 year old.
I'm sorry I do things you don't like.
I'm sorry I'm so irresponsible.
I'm sorry I'm so clumsy all the time.
I'm sorry I can't ever do anything right.
I'm sorry I always want to die.
I'm sorry I'm not interesting.
I'm sorry you have to see me cry.
I'm sorry for making you feel bad.
I'm sorry for being such a coward.
I'm sorry for acting how you don't want me to.
I'm sorry for being so stupid.
I'm sorry I'm not smart, or pretty, or nice.
I'm sorry I'm indecent, too.
I'm sorry for being myself again.
And I'm really sorry for you.
It's a place where we feel welcome, a place where we feel loved. Home is the place that feels perfectly imperfect because we all have our flaws. Home is where you make it, where you have a family, where you feel happy.
For a long time, I didn't realize this. I didn't know what home really was.
I used to hate the idea of going home. I hated being there. Not for any real reason, just because I hated how my parents made me feel when I was around them. I hated not being alone, not being able to listen to music without being called downstairs and being yelled at for not hearing them. I hated not being able to isolate myself, because for a long time I thought that was what I wanted.
The only time I feel at home is when I'm in the arms of my boyfriend.
When I'm with him, I don't get butterflies. I feel warm. I feel happy. I feel like it's a sunny, summer day and we're going out for a picnic. Being with him makes me feel I have flowers in my face, and there's sunshine everywhere I look. And it's calm, quiet, but not silent. When I'm with him I can almost hear the buzzing of bees and birdsongs.
He makes me feel accepted. He makes me feel loved. He makes me feel wanted.
He makes me feel okay. And I think that's what home is, being with the people that make you feel okay when you don't.
When I was fourteen my favorite thing in the world to do was sit on the swings and sing... And then the murders began.
Kindness isn’t a given -- Anywhere
People are not inherently kind, we are what we are made to be. The purest of hearts are those which are pure evil.
My life has been an endless series of me telling myself I suck.
I’ve never once felt like I love myself,
Guess I’m just out of luck.
I push for hope and happiness
But when I pull I rope in pain.
I guess the road I’m on just leads to this,
I’ve nothing left to gain.
I torture myself with self-hate
I ruin my school-work the same.
I procrastinate, avoid, and ignore things.
I hate hearing my name.
I was always told that I’m talented,
Always told that I’m smart,
But when it boils down to it:
I’m scraps in a world of art.
We’re always told we’re special
Unique, and great, and kind.
I told myself I won’t listen to lies anymore
So I started making them up in my mind.
It’s a real struggle when you hate not only your body, but who you are, too.
When you hate everything you think,
Everything you say,
Everything you do.
You hate how you look at yourself in the mirror,
And you hate yourself for hating yourself.
You hate how people speak to you when you don’t understand something
Or when you’re unaware of it completely.
You hate how you can’t stop eating your feelings,
And you hate how that makes you more upset.
You hate it,
You hate it,
You hate it.
It’s a real struggle when your whole life has been you telling yourself you’re worthless.
When you hate every fiber of your being
Every fiber of your soul.
You hate how you feel about other people,
And you hate how you think others feel about you.
You hate constantly feeling stupid because you don’t ever know what to say.
You hate constantly feeling hated because you can’t ever act nice in any way.
You hate constantly feeling isolated as though you can’t have anything to say.
You hate simply being you
Every. Single. Day.
We're all here to be special. And I guess that's what makes us so. We're different and the same in so many ways, we're all looking for somewhere to go. We're all here searching for happiness. For the future, for love, for gain. The things we have, however, remind us only of pain.
The pain of loss, we're filled with sorrow. The pain of giving up, it's worse. For when we give up on our souls, they're filled to the brim with a curse. We curse ourselves by cursing each other. We'll never be pure and cured. For the only way to be special, is to join the bandwagon--come aboard!
We each think we're different, that we're special. We each think we're better than most. But these thoughts that we keep thinking, will forever haunt us as a ghost. We look to our friends and family in order to get what we want, we don't rely on ourselves, but each other, yet think it's okay to taunt.
We hope for others to treat us well, while simultaneously they wish the same. But no one ever does just that, everyone's playing a game. Some of us monopolize on other people's fears. Some things we do will make us sorry, for that's the game we play. We laugh and we joke and we hurt ours and others' souls every single day.
The Spirit of a Stranger
She stands there in the open, shoe-less in the rain; hopeless, wandering, completely soaked in pain. Her arms are wrapped about her, tightly, she shivers in the cold. And as I pass by slowly, quietly, I am told: her name, it is Aurora. Her body, it is frail. I long to hold her tightly, and kiss her lips so pale. She walks off in the moonlight, and I cannot help but follow. Without her beauty in my sight, I just feel oh so hollow. Her name will not come off my lips as she moves further and further away. I soon give up on following, yet shortly hear a splash. She's gone for a swim in the lake nearby, now that's something I can't pass. I hurry to the site, the scene, and join her from afar. I watch the moon in her sad, pale eyes as I survey her body for scars. I see some floating on her wrists as she sinks further below the bridge. I take my piece, hold it to my head, and tell her I love her. I can be with her at last. Aurora, we don't know each other, but I love you nonetheless. I watched you cry and I watched you die, and all I want is to be with you. So if you'll be my angel in this desolate land, this time I'll save you, I'm sure of it.
Overthrowing what one thought was love
Bruised and battered, I take my stand.
I'm running to a foreign land.
Headaches, Heartaches, Foreign tongue,
You fill my life, I fill your lungs.
You reach out, grab me, hold me close
but I told you I'm leaving. Our relationship's gross.
You hit me, shove me, knock me down,
but I know that I'm not alone now.
I stand up to you, brush off the dirt
Being taken control of, didn't you know it hurt?