Dedication
for anyone terrified
that it won’t get better.
these pages
are proof that it will.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Author’s Note
The Darkness Falls
The Night Persists
The Dawn Breaks
The Sun Rises
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Ad
Copyright
About the Publisher
Author’s Note
this book was not easy to write. as a result, it may not be easy to read, either. poetry started out as a diary for me. so, at the beginning of the writing process for this book, I made a pact to myself that I would be completely honest. that means nothing is censored out. I talk about mental illness, self-harm, suicide, recovery, sexual assault, abusive relationships, violence, and other issues that may not be the easiest to swallow. you may relate to pieces near the beginning. you may relate to pieces near the end. or you may not relate to any pieces at all. whatever the case, know that it’s completely normal to be overwhelmed by some of these topics. I know I was at first. I still am sometimes. take care of yourself if you need to. put down the book if you need to. reach out to me if you need to. your safety is always important. so, do whatever you need to do. asking for help is not weak, I promise.
it’s human.
there is nothing
more powerful
than a girl
with a pen
who is brave enough
to use it.
The Darkness Falls
some people have nightmares
of being naked in public,
of having every inch of skin
on display
for the world to see.
that used to be my nightmare too.
but still
here I am.
flip these pages.
take a look.
lost:
happiness.
chapped lips,
little crooked teeth,
always smiling.
last seen eating ice cream,
dancing to background music,
chocolate dripping down her chin.
if found:
please tell her
I miss her.
I don’t dance
anymore.
I can point to the very first time
I felt alone in a crowd.
I was eleven.
it was summertime and
my thoughts tasted sour,
and I remember being confused
because before then
they had always been sweet.
it was like dipping my toe
into a pool of sadness,
oblivious to the fact
that I would soon be submerged.
I don’t know who I am.
I’m trying to look at myself
in the bathroom mirror,
but the shower’s running
and the glass is all foggy.
I’ve spent so much time
trying to become who I should be
that I lost myself along the way.
I cannot tell you who I loved,
or where, or when, or why;
I don’t remember first encounters,
only each goodbye.
I push away a feeling passed
once I know it’s gone.
it’s far too painful, once at dusk,
to think back on the dawn.
I am crowded
in an empty room.
I guess it’s the silence,
the emptiness,
the nothingness.
it pushes on me.
it tells me you take up too much
space.
I reply,
I know.
in my dreams
I feel his hands on me.
when I wake up,
I check for new bruises
shaped like his fingertips.
whenever I walk by him
I instinctively drag down my sleeves,
pull my hoodie tighter.
the body he stained
is always on display.
I scrub my skin
a little too hard
in the shower,
trying to get him off me,
trying to shed any cell on my body
he might have touched.
sometimes I scratch.
sometimes I peel.
sometimes I bleed.
this is the poem
I never wanted to write.
because writing makes it real,
immortal.
and I don’t want this memory
on paper.
I only want it erased.
I have come to the conclusion that
I am a walking paradox,
a mismatched mix of innocence and experience,
a bottle of oil and water
constantly being shaken.
I overthink the details.
I miss the big picture.
I am a perfectionist.
I am a procrastinator.
I have strong opinions.
I am indecisive.
I am stubborn.
I apologize too much.
it’s not physically possible
to be like this.
there is a reason oil and water separate
no matter how many times
you shake them back together.
I am black and white dots
in a body shaded gray,
and I don’t know which part
of myself is the truth anymore.
mercury:
my mood changes
too fast for my brain
to keep up with.
sometimes, I am okay.
I really am.
talking,
working,
laughing.
then suddenly,
day trades places with night
and my neurons freeze.
I stop talking.
I stop working.
I stop laughing.
all I can do
is pray the frostbite
doesn’t reach my heart
before the sun rises again.
the carousel goes round and round, a lovely place to play.
what picture-perfect innocence to fit this autumn day.
but no one tells the children that the spinning never slows,
that we’re all tied to our horses; locked in at our toes.
no one tells of desperate moments, dizzy and insane,
this blissful show of ignorance no longer just a game.
blinded by the pastel paint and chariots of gold,
the slanted truth of childhood is all that they’ve been told.
leave your brain at the door, my dear.
from here on, we are all heart and soul.
take off your shoes, watch your step,
don’t touch anything too fragile.
I am brittle and easy to break:
be careful.
that way, when you leave,
you can leave without a trace.
that way, when you’re gone,
I won’t be
haunted by your mud tracks
and fingerprints.
I can’t handle another mess to clean up.
in a world of covered ears
and mouths taped shut,
this is my cry for help.
is the sound of my fingertips
brushing the keyboard
loud enough?
can you hear me?
I’ve begun to censor your name
like a curse word.
in my phone,
your number is under
the one who broke me.
using your name
would offer you pity
and sympathy
and understanding.
using your name
would make you human
when you have only ever been
a heartless nightmare
to me.
google search history:
how to cure sadness
chronic sadness
what is it called when you feel more numb than sad
why don’t I smile anymore
how often does the average person smile
can smiling make you happy
why aren’t I happy
depression symptoms
anxiety symptoms
suicide hotline
how to cure depression and anxiety
how to cure depression and anxiety without medication
what to do if my antidepressants don’t work
what to do if therapy doesn’t work
are some people sad their whole lives
what to do if you’re not happy in your own body
what to do if you’re not happy
what to do if you’re triggered
alternatives to self-harm
suicide hotline
how bad does it have to be to be considered depression
suicide hotline
how to stop the thoughts
how to be happy
how to be happy
how to be happy
how to be happy
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how to be happy
I am going stir-crazy
inside my skull,
peeling off the wallpaper
with short, bitten nails.
there are no
emergency exits here:
I am left to
claw myself out.
there’s blood on the bathroom floor again,
my mother would be ashamed.
my head is the one that’s guilty,
but my soul is always blamed.
three months older, three months clean,
I thought that I might win.
but once again I find myself
digging graves into my skin.
no amount of promises
can make or break the fight;
do not believe that I am well
from the sonnets that I write.
it’s survival of the fittest,
not everyone will thrive.
we’re pushed so far that we go against
the instinct to survive.
these words are
not polished.
these words are
not pure.
these words are
venom purged from my veins
and poured out
on paper.
these words
are
poetic poison.
I cower as I walk through the hallway
like I am lost in the woods—
dodging the people,
dodging the trees,
dodging the lurking faces
behind each corner.
I am the little girl in every fable,
every folktale.
the powerless child,
the innocent face,
red hood up and basket in hand.
we all know what comes next.
I catch a glimpse of the wolf in the shadows.
the glowing eyes,
the curling lip,
the pointed teeth ready to attack—
and I realize he is wearing your clothing.
you have turned me into prey.
and you have always been the predator.
venus:
can you hear my vertebrae
cracking under the stress?
can you see my shoulders caving in
under the expectations?
can you feel my skin splitting
and the magma pouring out?
I am nearing the inevitable.
my spine will give out.
my shoulders will snap.
my skin will break down.
I can only
withstand so much.
you held my wrists, propped me up, and moved me on your stage;
all my life has been a script and you wrote every page.
you set a backdrop, painted smiles, hid what was within;
come one, come all, and see her now: the doll in human skin!
someone once asked me
what I would do
if finding happiness made me
unable to write anymore.
and the answer
is simple:
I would gladly
never pick up another pen.
where is the happy?
in elementary school,
I would burst out laughing
in the middle of class.
I was loud and outgoing,
messy
and funny
and happy.
but somewhere along the line I lost it.
the freedom.
the innocence.
sometimes I imagine my younger self
and I worry she wouldn’t recognize me.
she looks up at me with pigtails.
there are gaps in her mouth
where wiggly teeth have fallen out.
where is the happy?
she says,
her big brown eyes open wide.
and I never have an answer.
I work so hard
to be the hero.
but then I sabotage myself,
picking out poisoned apples
and eating them like candy.
I am the antagonistic
protagonist
of my own story.
darkness awaits me; I hear it whispering my name,
calling me back to the place I seem to belong.
most people are afraid of its voice.
not me.
this steady sadness,
this numbness that holds me sweetly like a lover,
it runs through each artery like the life that never was.
if this is my demise, then prepare me for peaceful destruction.
I give and give
and give,
even when it hurts me—
even if they’ve hurt me—
until there’s nothing left
of me at all.
sacrifice is not as glamorous
as it’s made out to be.
copy
imprint those around you
onto yourself.
become a sculpture of body parts,
a myriad of unfamiliar fingers and teeth.
pick and choose who you want to be,
and stand as their mirror.
paste
take a model from a magazine
and wear her like a shield.
give yourself time for the glue to dry,
let the eyelashes stick
and the spot cream harden.
remember your skin’s tape
is not double-sided.
cut
rip yourself apart when you feel
your pixelated skin is failing you.
dig back to the bottom,
desperately trying to find yourself again.
slash the imperfection away.
quit
reach the point where your screen is frozen.
you have tried too hard to wait it out.
all you are is a blank paper with
bits of plagiarized pieces
bandaging broken margins.
it only takes one press of a finger
to shut it all down.
“what you can do
when you press control”
right now, I am a rough draft;
I am here to be
revisited and revised.
hard as I try,
I am not the girl poets speak of.
I am not made up of ocean tides
and my heart is not a crystal drum;
it will always be a weapon
more than anything.
I am an incomplete masterpiece,
full of crossed-out words and changes.
no one ever calls the first draft beautiful,
and I will never be the final piece.
go ahead and fight me, I’ll surely let you win,
comment on my body and I’ll make myself grow thin.
you’re digging nails into all the bruises that you kissed,
I’m putty in your hand, but all you do is clench your fist.
earth:
I burn and smoke
to keep others warm,
forgetting that
I need to breathe.
I carry a first-aid kit
wherever I go,
forgetting that
I need to heal.
I give out love
to all who will take it,
forgetting that
I need some for myself.
I am dying
in order to keep
everyone around me alive.
digging up your arteries
to find proof of something more—
I want to see blood or bone or nerves
or anything at all
therehastobesomethingmore
(right?)
a never-ending search,
a hollow hole,
a space inside a sentence.
I tried to scratch under the surface,
but you are all skin and skin and skin.
I want so badly
to spill out my soul
onto these pages,
but some things
are stuck.
some memories
cling to the sides
of my spirit
no matter how much
I try to scrape them out.
I don’t remember when