#bit depressing

I know you don’t love me, but I’m here if you need a shoulder to cry on.

I know you could care less if I fall apart, but I’ll be here to help put yo back together.

I’ll die a little every day, slowly let myself drift away.

Lose the bonds I had, kill the trust I grew.

Hiding myself

Hiding my screen

Hiding my scars

Being a teenager means crying

Until there are no more tears

And the world

Is numb

Being a teenager means hating

How I look and how I talk

And how my hair falls

And having to eat and sleep

Being a teenager means filtering

Everything I want to scream and shout

And all the words I shouldn’t know

And the jokes I shouldn’t say

Being a teenager means masking

Hiding myself behind

A facade of a happy girl

Who does her work and loves herself

Being a teenager means thinking

Growing opinions and thoughts

In the Petri dish

Of my mind

Being a teenager means knowing

So many wonderful things

Or horrible things

Or things that make me want to scream in anger

Being a teenager means staying

Stuck between

A baby and an adult

Treated as both and neither

Being a teenager means feeling

A hundred and one emotions

Or none

At all

Being a teenager means fighting

With my parents

My friends

The world

I do not wish to be a teenager

It hurts

I'm sitting here in my bedroom, fucking exhausted. How can I be without him. How can I have forgotten him. I know it's childish, but I can't help but cry. I don't remember the last time I slept without my teddy bear beside me. I don't know how I'll sleep tonight.

My eyes weigh like stones upon my face, burnt from tears. I stare at the ceiling, feeling nothing to do, an itching in my skin, in my chest, that won't give in.

I close my eyes and am entertained only mildly by the colours behind my eyelids and the memories I watch, displayed across them. I remember, years ago but yesterday, standing in the shower.

I felt dry, despite having stood under the water for longer than necessary. I scrubbed at my skin, determined to rid myself of the tiny white particles of dead cells that tortured my skin. My fingers acted independently of me. I scratched my chest red raw, leaving red dots and purple bruises, pulling along more white cells.

I remembered years ago, fighting with my parents, kicking and screaming. I didn't like parties anyway, but I hated what they demanded I wear.

My teddy is gone. Not lost, not scared. But far enough away to feel gone. He had been there for me through the scratching and the scratching and the bruising. He had held my chest tenderly, without complaint. He was so soft and kind.

What do I have now? I feel alone. Nothing's the same.