A Poem On Past Pain

Find the cracks in the wall

And the hairs stuck in the paint.

Stare at where the mirror used to be, 

Now you can see the ceiling 

When you look at the floor

And the bamboo boards

Have little scarlet dots on them.

Remember which was the shoebox

With more than just shoes,

Pull at the all too thick hair

Dead hair

Useless hair

Stupid hair.

Grab oversized thighs,

(Scarred thighs)

And undersized wrists.

(Guilty wrists)

Tear at fingernails

(Jagged fingernails,

Sharp fingernails)

And chew a hole in the bottom lip

(Bitch-face lips,

never-been-kissed lips).

I’m sorry that you don’t look

like the porcelain dolls, given to a child.

That the child cries.

That the child can’t be touched

(Cheeks, neck, legs, hands.)

Without thinking that’s all they are alive for.

Don’t ever touch me.

Disproportioned.

Jackets three sizes wrong; 

No jawline but see the collarbones,

Orange lashes and brows, but hair too.

Comment on tiny wrists 

Never see the shoulders.

Check out the ass and tits

But turn away at the sight of the stomach.

Embarrassment.

See hands covering regret.

See unstoppable laughter, hidden

Behind skeleton hands.

The same skeleton hands 

That raked the leaves from the yards

Of people’s hearts.

That hugged air, when thats all there was

After holding in the terror

Of innocence taken at fourteen years.

You took some things from me that I’d quite like back. But I know that can’t happen. Those events shaped me in ways I wish they hadn’t. And now my sister is the same age I was and it’s like living it all again because of the worry I feel that someone will do to her what you did to me.

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Little Insecurities

Stretch marks are pretty.

We’re told that all the time, and we see pictures of girls who’s thighs look like jupiter and suddenly we’re convinced they are pretty. Because, they are.

But it’s hard to love your stretch marks.

When they don’t fit the conventional “pretty”.

When you’re a 55 kilo, 5’4″, 17 year old.

When people are surprised they even exist on your body, and they don’t try to hide that fact. ‘Because it’s a compliment! I didn’t think you were big enough to have stretch marks!’ Gee thanks.

When they are vibrant purple and blood red and sometimes even blue. ‘Aren’t stretch marks supposed to be white, like lightening bolts?’

When they cover your thighs. And hips. And bum. And tummy. And boobs. And calves. And people aren’t afraid to point them out to you as though you haven’t spent hours in front of the mirror wishing them away.

When they intertwine themselves with the little, dead straight, white lines scattered across your body that you wish would disappear. And people in turn ask what those are, even though you really don’t want to talk about it. And how can you love your stretch marks when they occupy the same parts of your body as something that you hate and regret so much?

Stretch marks are pretty, on other girls.

Stretch marks are pretty, scattered across the backs of boys.

Stretch marks are pretty, and I am fascinated by their beauty, except on me.

It’s hard to love your stretch marks. But I promise I’m trying.

for the boy i didn’t tell anyone about

i read through everything tonight. looking for some sort of clue, another piece to the puzzle. anything that will help me right now.

and i cried.

long and hard. and i whispered little “i love you”s to my computer screen, wishing you could hear them. and i prayed because what else am i to do?

i smile at you and i talk to you and i laugh with you and i spend half my time at home with my thumb hovering above the “call” button. but i never press it. because i’m filled with doubt. what if you’re busy? what if you don’t want to talk to me? what if i’m being annoying?

i know we live in a world where nothing is certain. but its still unbelievably hard to tell people how i feel. i need some sort of liquid courage for that. and a wiped memory.

because you’re interested in someone better than me. someone i could never be. so i cut myself off, not just from you but from the entire world. i hide in my bed and i drop out of school and i cancel on friends. because even though i know you can not find peace by avoiding life, i’m not finding peace by partaking in life either.

and my face is still hot with tears and everything around me feels cold and sterile without you. all i want is to pull that old sweater from the back of my wardrobe and curl up with it. or talk to someone about you. but you were my secret, because its good to have secrets, right? and mum tells me you fancy me still but how could she really know when she never even met you?

and all this is just because i cant tell you that i’m in love with you. maybe if i told you it would kill that small shred of false hope i have.

if i cant have you, can i at least have my secrets back? please?

a mass of muddled ramblings pulled from my tear soaked mind.

Fears of The Future

Here, hold my heart, take it in your hands softly and do not let it break.

Today, you are holding all my worries for the future.

You are holding the dreams I have that I have not told a single soul. The constant worry that I am not going to be able to achieve these dreams. The fear of never being loved and not being loveable. The fear of being ignored. The fear of not being enough. These fears manifest themselves and turn into something ugly, it rears its head inside my chest and turns me harsh and cold. I am sorry. I am sorry I can be a horrible person, I hope you give me the chance to redeem myself.

I hand you these fears and I urge you to be careful with them. Be careful with me. Be careful with my heart.