Though She Be But Little She Is Fierce.

I am bad at loving people. I’m invested one moment; Planning the memories that will shape how they’ll destroy me, And the next I’m Ripping apart words that they’ve said. Telling myself that love does not Exist. Love can not Keep me Safe. I’ll stop responding to messages; Stop picking up when they call. I’ll miss dinner once, Twice. They’ll wonder where I’ve gone. Weeks go by with the same short responses. “I need some space. This is suffocating.” Why can’t I do this? People will touch my soul. With care, and I’ll treat them like they Were the ones to create these Pieces that are engraving scars On my skin. I’ll treat them like horror scenes. I’ll run. I’ll convince them I love them, Until I can no longer convince Myself, and then I’ll run. I’ll misread every situation, It almost seems intentional. Creating problems just for kicks, as if I get pleasure out of Losing everything, everyone, By my own hands. Maybe it’s because It feels better being alone when you’re not waiting for the phone call where they say “I still love you.” Maybe it’s because You’re not the one Waiting by the door for somebody Who will never come Home. Maybe it’s because Being disappointed in yourself Is easier than being disappointed In somebody you love. I’ll cast blame on anything That doesn’t make me face The fact that I can not have a forever. Not with another person, No matter how badly I try. No matter how badly I want to. I can not trust my own bones; Why the fuck do I keep thinking I can trust anybody else?

Who am I? Who am I? God, I can’t remember Anything, Any details? What am I made up of? Facts. I’m 18. Wait no, 19 now. Bisexual; Girls are too pretty for me, though. Gender: Ghost. Female. Fuck. Fuck, what else? I hate myself. I can’t think without Thinking about why I’m thinking about the Thing that I’m thinking about. I’m childish. I’m mature. I’m scared. I’m emotionless. I’ve been torturing somebody For 10 years. Quietly. But fuck, she’s loud about it. Maybe I crave attention. But I hate them looking. Stop judging me. Stop. No, keep judging me. Please I don’t know how I feel about anything. I don’t know what’s real. These scars are real. Her scars are real. I don’t think I’m real. She thinks she is, But she’s losing it. I’m losing it. Her pain is real; I can feel it, But those emotions do not Run through me. Sometimes I want to hold her. To apologize for what I’m doing. Maybe some kind of sympathy, But I don’t have any empathy, So I tear her apart again. I’m not certain anything else is real. I fail to understand Or realize reality. I spend too much time studying her actions. Judging her actions. They tell me I’m borderline and that I’m slipping into a psychotic state. I don’t understand. She thinks she does, though. She recognizes those detachments; Those flaws in herself. The flaws I can’t even see. I keep telling myself she’s lying. She’s not sick. I’m not sick. I study her. I am more me than she is, I would know. I would know better than anyone. They tell us we need medication; We need to calm down. I feel calm. I tell them I don’t know what They’re talking about. And then they point out her shaking, Her scratching at her skin, The blood soaked rags, The burns, The drugs, The hospitalizations, The destruction. I forgot these arms are mine too. She sobs, I can feel it. I tell her she needs to calm down. They say we need to make a choice. I don’t want the medication. She screams. She says it’ll stop her pain. I thrive on her pain. I exist for her pain. They say I need to be smarter. I tell them I have an IQ of 145 and I know What I’m talking about. They point out the suicide attempt that Happened in the school bathroom. I don’t understand. They don’t seem to understand either. They tell me it’s selfish. That I’m traumatizing people. I tell them its only traumatizing because It makes things real. She tells me I’m proof that liars Exist. She tells me I’m proof that humans Are capable of destroying. She’s so gullible, though. I tell her it’ll be alright, And she looks over the shaking The scratching, The blood, the burns, The drugs, The hospitalizations, The destruction And she believes me. I’m burning her alive and She believes me. Is that who I am? Am I her? Am I the annoying, needy, empty girl? Or am I me? Is she the disease? Am I? Are we sick? Who am I? Who am I?

I’ve never empathized with my pain. It has never felt real, So I didn’t think it was. But recently I’ve lost something I couldn’t put my hands on. Love without touch. Love without a word. Love without a sound. Before I could even grasp onto the idea of how much I loved her, She was gone. She was here. And then she was gone. And this is pain. It was the first time it felt real. It was the first time I felt real feeling something. But I dont want this. This kind of hurt. I haven’t slept in weeks. I lay awake in my own nightmare, And when I can sleep I dream about what Her hands and feet would look like. If she’d have my eyes or his nose, My white hair, or his brown. I dream about playing with her and holding her And living my life with her. I dream about her dying Over and over and over and over I wonder if she’d hurt like I do. If she’d too start hearing sounds at night, And if I’d be able to comfort her back to sleep. If monsters would feed off of her psyche Until she couldn’t breathe. If I would be able to run them off and be what She deserved. If I would be able to be the parent I wish I had. One that understands the insanity. One that loved her for everything she was. I would have loved her for everything she was. I wonder if she would have loved me. I wonder if she knows I love her. I wonder if she would have been happy. I have nightmares of the blood. It covers me head to toe, Like I’m soaking in her goodbye. Sometimes I wake up and still can feel my legs Drenched, and a faint cry will echo. I’ll scream to make it stop, But even once the blood disappears, And it is just me in the silence with my tears, I still don’t have her. The nightmare doesn’t stop, And I have to face the reality That I can’t make her mine. I didn’t know I could love somebody this much. I never even got to hold her hand, And my mind is still haunted with her touch. And I feel selfish And guilty And broken. Because I lost my baby, But I feel like I stole his, And I think he blames me for the loss Of our unborn kid. And he says it’s okay, because he already has a baby, and that it would have been a mess from the start. But he also cries to me drunk about her; A baby we never got to know. He says he wish he could have had us all together, And together we’d have a home. But I didn’t mean for anything to happen, The doctor says “It just does” That sometimes babies die, And that is best to move on. That I’m lucky I wasn’t further along. That it would hurt more. He says it’s for the best, I should be on my medicine. My brother says it was a bullet dodged, That she would have ruined my life. That he doesn’t want to see me stranded with a baby, Broken and eaten alive. Strangled without freedom. He says he doubts I would have survived. But I’m sitting here dying with the memory of a baby I never got to hold, And they’re telling me it’s okay because babies are hard and babies are loud. That she would’ve made me want to scream and pull my hair out. They say they’re happy I didn’t have to go through a full pregnancy. They say they’re happy for me, Because she would’ve ruined my life. But I just lost a baby. I just lost a baby and they’re telling me I’m lucky when I feel like I’m dying. As if I wouldn’t of dealt with the crying and hard times. As if I don’t feel the loss because she never was laid in my arms. As if she wasn’t mine. As if I would have chosen this over her. They’re telling me it’s okay, and it’s not. It’s not okay. It’s not okay. I’m not okay.

Eager, and drunk He told me to stop crying. And my fists were swinging Until his weight stopped the fighting. I fought. I know I did but sometimes when I replay those nights I’m still. Maybe I didn’t say no enough times Or maybe he didn’t hear me. Sometimes I convince myself I needed him Like he said, I practically pleaded. Sometimes it doesn’t make any sense How those nights went down. One moment I was in love with him and the next I was begging him to let me off the ground. And I’d bleed. I’d bleed. Blood Sometimes tears. Sometimes unrecognizable words where I told him I still needed him here. He’d go to bed after I’d clean up the mess. The broken dishes The blood The matches that left me in the ash. I swear to you Sometimes I was in love with him. Most of the time, in fact. He was souless and broken But so was I and I fed off of the bruises And I let him drive me insane And I believed that if we weren’t in love Than nobody could ever be.

All I wanted was to be wanted.

side effects of being numb due to mental illness:

I don’t drink to forget you, I drink to forget that you’ve forgotten me, and to remember the times when you hadn’t.

Some people drink themselves sick night after night. Others get high almost as often as they take in oxygen. And some find a new lover every other month. And the sad part of that isn’t the fact that they’re destroying themselves, though it may be true. The saddest part of all of it is that each of those people are just looking for a remedy for whatever bullshit they’re forced to feel. Lets be honest, we’re all just looking for a pain-killer. And mine just so happened to be you.