21

Standard

The tightening chest and the sunken stomach

The eight hour naps and mental health plummet

The panic attacks that have no cause

The boy that won’t commit because you’re too flawed

The test that returned with a mere 30 percent

The sex you had with questionable consent

Friends to lose and potential depleting 

The reaper might be a half decent meeting 

High Maintenance 

Standard

Viscously sweet words stain your teeth when you speak to me
Different shades of concealer stain your white shirt when you leave
 Like the coffee you drink and the mud on your shoes,

Such astounding neglect to the mess you produce

That chip on your shoulder, the self proclaimed scar of lost love

An empty excuse for your bullshit, you’ve been through push and shove.

But you didn’t push me or shove me, like you claim she did to you.

You suffocated me, tore me apart, beat me black and blue.

You hitched me to the back of your car, and drove as far as you could,

Until the broken road took me, frayed the rope tied to your hood.

You stopped the car and saw I was more broken now than I was before,

And wondered why those viscously sweet words weren’t enough anymore.

The Comfort of Depression

Standard

She went up to strangers and asked them to play
She never predicted that they wouldn’t stay

That her love and affection wouldn’t be enough

To keep her friends by her side when shit got tough

They see what’s easy and are with her through thin

But when life gets thick don’t expect to spin

Around, and see, a single person standing behind her

Here, is where he begins his seductive lure

He beckons to her, the only voice around

As none of her friends can seem to be found

So she listens to him, the only comfort she can find

He soon comes to be the only familiarity in her mind

Now every time she’s scared, upset, or confused

She falls back to him, the only one whose

Always been with her, from playground to walk of shame

He’s in her head, he always came.

He convinces her no one cares, no one wants her around

He keeps her hidden, in bed can she be found

Now she can’t leave him, her psychosis too dependent 

On the only voice inside her, his direction inherent 

He took over her life, action, thought, and word

It’s impossible to find the girl you once heard

Call out on the playground to come join the fun

She lost herself in him, and him, she had become.

Waste my time

Standard

Etched in my forehead with deep, bloody strokes.

Unmissable print, forced down your throat.

You have no choice, it’s clearly stated.

No blur, no smear, no chance to be faded.

The instructions are clear, you oblige with relief,

To the tattoo on my face, the directions of a thief.

Take your time and bear my soul.

Don’t worry about me, you’ll take your toll.

But I’ll come back, naive and broken,

Oblivious to the truth beneath what you have spoken.

But it’s not your fault, you were told what to do,

By the tattoo on my forehead, far from new.

I didn’t ask for it but there it will stay,

To tell all the boys to treat me this way.

The dead friend

Standard

Begging for attention.

It’s been years since we were friends.

I’m never going to mention

The first day that we met.

You made yourself my friend,

The scared kid who couldn’t step

Into the lineup

Of children who leapt

Away from their mothers,

Not looking back.

You saw my weakness

And offered a pact.

You said to stand beside you,

It’s not that scary,

Your brothers have done it,

Don’t be wary.

People judge, question, and accuse,

Me of bandwagoning onto the misery.

That you’re the dead friend.

All attention, no history.

But this isn’t for them, for those, for any,

This is for Ashley, 

Happy 21st birthday.

To the passers

Standard

Pass the joint pass the beer

Pass the girl who’s always near

She has many “friends”

All who wanna fuck her

But none that know

How to say what she wants to hear

She’ll be the girl that you just fuck

While the one you really  want

Is at home all tucked

Waiting for the text that you’re gonna send her

Cause the girl you’re with now

Well,

She’s just the girl for now

Prescribe me this

Standard

You know what I’m fucking tired of Why can’t I feel anymore

I can’t

Be lustful

Be sexy

Be attractive

Be wanted

Without being called a slut

Why can’t I want other men to want me

Without my boyfriends getting mad

Without my employer getting disgusted

Without my friends getting annoyed

Why can’t I show my shoulder without 

My dad warning me of the danger

My uncle telling me I’m provocative

My counsel or telling me I’m unemployable

What if I show parts of myself

When can I post a picture without being scared

Why is my body so wrong?