the blood that rushed throughout veins

from birthing of child

to matching the pitched in which the doorbell praises

I wonder if it all meant something.

or distinctly destroyed by factors outplayed.

Talent

the decipher of a baby's tears.

nights I've stayed up.

wary and woed

vicious blood

bleed straight from my soul

Take away my special

and carry me the defensibly.

as the girl next to me

who worships the grave

Talent

is the difference

between violets and roses.

Being published.

Being published was the warm cherry on freezing cold ice cream, the validation I had always craved. Being published means more than just expression - it means livelihood. It is the blossoming of the seeds of the garden I planted as a child. The " i'm proud of you" that I have heard but finally realize is not satire. Being published meant the world to me just for my tiny college's tiny art's magazine. I can't wait to see what my words can do when pressure is applied to the message. Being published would bring meaning to my name.

wasn’t made to be loved. I was made to give but never receive. My purpose was to be the first to say congratulations but forever be the last to hear an applause. It is something I have come to terms with. I was made to be hurt but never protected. I drop everyone off but no one makes sure I get home safely. I have come to terms that my smile will never be contagious and my tears will never water up someone else’s eyes. I wasn’t made to be loved.

Even though knowing this fact about myself , I still wish you never looked into my eyes. I wish you had never asked me if they were real or just contacts. I wish you never invited us to that party and I wished I never allowed you to spend the night. I wished you never kissed my forehead, never kissed my nose and never kissed my lips. You reassured me that my eyes are pretty enough to fall in love with but not enough to fall in deep. To love them as objects but not the soul that lies beneath. I remember you told me you could tell I was a sad person when you looked into my eyes , you asked who hurt me and came to the conclusion that a lot of people did . You were right. I still wonder why you brought this up - because the sadness in my eyes meant nothing to you 3 weeks later. The sadness in my eyes did not phase you as you told your roommate you never liked me.

“ I didn’t like her” a phrase that has never been uncostumed. I have heard this phrase my whole life. This phrase coming from everyone else was not a lie though; It was a genuine statement. You, on the other hand , looked into my eyes and called them crystals. You told me I was beautiful. You told me I made you nervous. You put my face in your hands and kissed me. I would have never made a move - that's just not who I am. You found me when I was looking with my eyes closed. You saw my innocence and praised my vulnerability. But why did you have to turn me into a stupid girl who turned out to just be naive? I did not know I was just a check off your college girl hookup list. Did you enjoy being my first ? Did it give you some form of ego boost being an 18 year old girl's first kiss? Was it an added pleasure being the first to ever touch me with given permission? And did it bore you when it was slow? Did I bore you when I moved your hand from my inner thigh? Is that when my eyes went from being beautiful , to just eyes? You purposefully undressed my loneliness but wished it was my body.

I know I wasn’t made to be loved but I think you were just the epitome of what it could be like for me. You were just an idea. A hypothesis once again proven wrong. I think this was what left me in despair for so long. What left me sleeping through my days, what lost my appetite, what blocked my writing. Because what is it about me that people always found okay to throw rocks at until I am black and bruised? What is it about me that makes people think they can treat me wrong and just move on with their lives perfectly fine? What is it about me that made you walk past me with a group of girls and tell me to have a good night? What is it about me that gives you the right to lie ? Was it the way I told you it was okay to cry? The way I made you laugh ? The way I checked in on you when you were sick? Was it a repulsing feeling for me to hug you when you told me you needed one?

Even though you were a complete asshole to me, you, yourself do not deserve the credit for my depressive episode. I was over the you aspect the moment you told me you were just busy. You just brought out my trauma of always being the one pushed away. The friend who walks in the grass because there's no more room on the sidewalk. The daughter who was told “ I cannot wait till you move out” You made me remember that no matter where I go or who I meet I am the same little vulnerable naive girl. The same girl who cried night after night in her closet. The same girl who only has 2 -3 friends she doesnt doubt. You made me remember I wasn’t made to be loved because how can you be loved if you were never even made to be liked.

My biggest weakness has always been my anger. My previous depressive episodes meant words of power in arguments. It meant making people wish they never met me . These episodes meant war. This time around I did not feel anger , I did not have energy to yell and force out hate on to you. The one thing I have always been ashamed of , you made me crave. I craved to feel the heat rush to my face and turn my ears red. I craved to belittle you right to your face. I wanted you to feel small and to show you what a real bitch could be. I wanted to be able to prove that no man had ever encountered anything worse than my feminine rage. Make you realize you did not just get away with throwing my heart in front of the city bus. I wouldn’t have cared who you told I was a psycho afterwards. I wanted to pull out all your insecurities , throw them in your face and get rid of that awful ego of yours. I wanted to make your 5 '7 , frat boy with no common sense, mommy issues, outgrown facial hair, ,no personality having ass cry. I wanted to watch the tears fall from your eyes onto your lips before you could wipe them because the emotions distracted your reflexes. Make you regret making me the worst crime you'd ever commit. And believe me if you were any other motherfucker I would have. So I do not know what was different, I do not know why I let you get away with this.

Maybe it was because when I looked into your eyes , there was already nothing there . No sadness and no hidden truths. Your eyes are so lifeless it was scary. I think that’s enough of a problem for you to deal with, because whatever demons tried to kill you obviously won. I am not phased when I see you with the seventeen girls I have seen you with so far ; I know they could never mean anything to you. I am not convinced by the alarming amount of videos of you drunk and partying - I know it is all just temporary and fake happiness. I know when I walk past you and act like I never knew you that one day all you will feel is regret. For now though I will be okay and not worry about hitting you where it hurts. As hard as it is for me to say , at least I have depressive episodes , because at least I still feel something from the horrible world around me.

Though I wasn't made to be loved , at least I am still able to give it out.

Winter does not last forever. The chilled wind comes and then goes. Red noses turn into stuffed ones as I sniffle from the pollen as plants bloom in spring. 3 months further along noses will turn red again peeling from the sun. I learn to have fun, to smile as I sweat. Winter does not last forever. Yet sometimes, even in the blazing sun I am stuck right where the chilled wind left me. Swimming with floaties turns to drowning underneath the ice as my friend's skate right above me. The cracks in the ice let in a safe air but my hypothermia isn't supposed to be anyone else's heat exhaustion - it's just my hypothermia.

I think winter last as long as I've conditioned myself to let it. Enjoying summer feels like high infidelity to my winters. At some point between the changes of the seasons I began to miss the way my lips turned purple. I long for the goose bumps on my arms in place of the freckles in which the sun had kissed me with. I find so much comfort in the cold that warmth has become suffocating. I'll bath in ice just to the spark the snowflakes within me again. After I'll turn around and invalidate my winters like the North Invalidates the South's.

Winter does not last forever but it finds its place throughout calendar's and comes around whenever it can. Different conditions, different temperatures, different storms. Winter is a teacher of strength and resources. Winters are escapable but I can escape who I've accustomed myself to be because of them. Winter does not last forever, but my winter may live inside of me for the rest of my life.

I can feel it in my stomach. I feel the pit in my stomach and the weight that drags down my eyes. When I think of them I can feel the turning of my insides. I pray this is not how I’ll always feel. That I won’t always feel the physical repercussions of when someone bruises my heart. A heart that I refuse to call broken because I am still praying it will all fade. And that's what bruises do , fade but cracks need glue or stitches and that shits too sticky, I have a fear of needles and closure is not worth allowing you to look into my eyes. It is not worth allowing you back into my life even if just for the moment. And I pray that one day my heart stops getting bruised because I can remember the feeling of every single punch it ever took. I remember every time I have been hurt. My mind and my heart are not the best of friends . My mind won’t let my heart forget. I pray that they learn to get along , for the sake of my stomach because the differences between hungry and sad have become quite hard to differentiate. I cannot tell if my headaches need medicine or just an episode of new girl to temporarily numb the pain.

I pray they feel the consequences of their actions, I pray their heart drops when they see me in the halls . I pray they see me in the distance and wonder what we could have been if there wasn't silence left between the walls. I hope they see me in our hometown and miss the idea of giving me a call. But I can't pray for God to bring evil , because that is not what God is. I just do not want to be the only one regretting the situation. The only one left in remembrance. The only one with a name on a tombstone and a picture in the paper. I pray that I am not dead to them in the way I have worked so hard to kill them inside of me. It feels like I searched so long for heaven but was led straight into hell. I have been through alot in my life but their silence is the loudest I have ever heard someone yell. I pray that I stop saying they are who I hate because who am I to? But I have no remorse for a man who collects broken hearts in alcohol bottles. A Man Who hides behind a fraternity when that money should have really gone to therapy. I pray that one day I understand men like him, what hurt it must have taken to ruin the friendship - and then ruin the friend. I try to have remorse for a girl I've always cared for but You can’t save a person from drowning when she twists the stories and says you are the one who threw her in. I pray that one day I will understand a woman like her , what place of hurt she came from to put validation from a man first. She taught me that sisterhood has evil step sisters. That some people can’t change no matter how long you were convinced they did.

Mostly I pray for my mirror that I sit in front of to cry. The reflection I see tells me what everyone else does. I pray I’ll stop laughing at myself for being human and feeling weak. I pray for the little girl I never allowed myself to be. I pray I learn from the situation and stop letting my heart stand still in the middle of the highway for cars to come at it going 80. I pray my brain and heart become mutual friends with my gut and intuition. I pray I stop being so easy to forgive and be the type of person who can just move on and forget. Because I know I am not the type of person who can hate , but I have always been the one who remembers. I pray the pits in my stomachs and the weight that drags down my eyes become more and more temporary. Though I don't want them to disappear because that would take away from my humanity.

The house that built me grew mold on its sheetrock years before I was born. A 3-bedroom, one bath house. A kitchen, a living room, a garage , a couple hallways and several corners. Filled with 6 people, 2 dogs, a cat and the occasional runaway cousin. My childhood house was nothing more than that - a house, nothing that felt like home. Little me did not originally know the welcome mat was not welcoming her , and her ideas, her thoughts, her tears, her body. Little me soon realized going home after school was not a sentence she should be saying. That her home was like being in a hurricane but never getting to experience the eye. My house was a tidal wave that helped me learn how to live as I drown. Little me found home in her ink and wet paper as she cried in her closet. Home is the words of my heart that raised me. I believe in love for others and balances of peace. That happiness comes in waves, but sadness is what brings you back to the shore. This is recovery for little me.

I’m getting Deja Vu from the last time I spoke to you. Which is weird, because were still not speaking and it came at a moment, I finally felt worthy of breathing. Sometimes I have to lie down, close my eyes, and go back to the time when you wanted to be around me. Going back to a time when I was wanted, though very briefly, it’s wrong I know, it’s what my heart needs. To be a woman who has never been loved- is to lose her source of femininity. I wish when you said you wanted me closer - you meant to your heart and not just your chest. I wish the situation would be easy to forget, but I am working on it. Because truth be told you are not the worst thing to have happened to me. Your depression affected me like secondhand smoke. Hurt people hurt people but I’ve been hurt and could never do what you did. Maybe depression hits people differently, I became nicer to others and your demons destroyed you. Though I’ve grown past you I still see you when I sleep, and I still wrote about you in my poetry.

“Light blue cars haunt my streets.

I hope my light blue eyes haunt your dreams.

Turns your careless thoughts into nightmares.

The terrors of the person you grew to be.

The terrors of the person you were to me.”

The most tragic part of it all is You’ll never pay the price for the crimes you committed against me. There's no autopsy on a lifeless body that still breathes. Discovering your mountains flooded my seas and I am only as strong as the monuments around me. If I had the chance to speak to you again, I don’t think I would take it. There's nothing left to say. We act like we never met and one day I won’t remember we did but, it’ll be something you’ll always have to live with. You’re lucky I’m a quieter person than the one I was a year ago. Plaster pictures of our face, ruined reputation in a day. My laugh that would ring through your ears till you went deaf. Yet instead, none of your friends know about the knife in your drawl that has my dried blood on it.

I can feel it in my stomach. I feel the pit in my stomach and the weight that drags down my eyes. When I think of them, I can feel the turning of my insides. I pray this is not how I’ll always feel. That I won’t always feel the physical repercussions of when someone bruises my heart. A heart that I refuse to call broken because I am still praying it will all fade. And that's what bruises do, fade but cracks need glue or stitches and those shits too sticky, I have a fear of needles and closure is not worth allowing you to look into my eyes. It is not worth allowing you back into my life even if just for the moment. And I pray that one day my heart stops getting bruised because I can remember the feeling of every single punch it ever took. I remember every time I have been hurt. My mind and my heart are not the best of friends. My mind won’t let my heart forget. I pray that they learn to get along, for the sake of my stomach because the differences between hungry and sad have become quite hard to differentiate. I cannot tell if my headaches need medicine or just an episode of new girl to temporarily numb the pain.

I pray they feel the consequences of their actions, I pray their heart drops when they see me in the halls. I pray they see me in the distance and wonder what we could have been if there wasn't silence left between the walls. I hope they see me in our hometown and miss the idea of giving me a call. But I can't pray for God to bring evil , because that is not what God is. I just do not want to be the only one regretting the situation. The only one left in remembrance. The only one with a name on a tombstone and a picture in the paper. I pray that I am not dead to them in the way I have worked so hard to kill them inside of me. It feels like I searched so long for heaven but was led straight into hell. I have been through alot in my life but their silence is the loudest I have ever heard someone yell. I pray that I stop saying they are who I hate because who am I to? But I have no remorse for a man who collects broken hearts in alcohol bottles. A Man Who hides behind a fraternity when that money should have really gone to therapy. I pray that one day I understand men like him, what hurt it must have taken to ruin the friendship - and then ruin the friend. I try to have remorse for a girl I've always cared for but You can’t save a person from drowning when she twists the stories and says you are the one who threw her in. I pray that one day I will understand a woman like her , what place of hurt she came from to put validation from a man first. She taught me that sisterhood has evil step sisters. That some people can’t change no matter how long you were convinced they did.

Mostly I pray for my mirror that I sit in front of to cry. The reflection I see tells me what everyone else does. I pray I’ll stop laughing at myself for being human and feeling weak. I pray for the little girl I never allowed myself to be. I pray I learn from the situation and stop letting my heart stand still in the middle of the highway for cars to come at it going 80. I pray my brain and heart become mutual friends with my gut and intuition. I pray I stop being so easy to forgive and be the type of person who can just move on and forget. Because I know I am not the type of person who can hate , but I have always been the one who remembers. I pray the pits in my stomachs and the weight that drags down my eyes become more and more temporary. Though I don't want them to disappear because that would take away from my humanity.

You can write what you do not know or experience. I've never been in love, but I can tell the story of what I imagine falling to feel like. Writing is not always your own trauma and expertise - sometimes a writer's job is to give power to the people who cannot speak. Limiting a person's work to only the known ruining the what if tells and unfortunate desires. I can write for days about the heartbreak i experience when I was 14 and you would never know it was a lie but I bet my words would still water up your eyes. You can write about what you do not know because maybe it'll give you the courage to take the stuff out and learn.

He thought my eyes were pretty.

In a way i thought I could love

but truth was.

He thought my eyes were sexy.

in way he thought he could lust.

Ive never felt less feminine

till he made me the object of his desire

and then made me the object of his game

then got bored and threw me away

He thought my eyes were pretty

and i regret ever looking back into his

what hurt soul he had to have been

to ruin the friendship

and then ruin the friend

My first encountor of lust

over something as simple

as my eyes

not ass or my boobs

would'nt you think

that could be love too?