(if you're just going to comment on the subject matter don't comment at
all... this is an entirely personal account and i don't appreciate comments
like "another cutting poem??" or "dry your tears emo kid". that ticks me
off. thank you.)

you always said that i was
melodramatic, overdone,
and needed to "calm
down"

what are you
thinking of me now, with
this thought pulsing through
my head as i try not to
let my hands grasp for
my cure, my secret
love affair, the one
that you scream at me for
always running to, even
though we both know
that i can't help it any
more than you can
stop breating

now i'm slowly raising
my head, staring back
into the mirror at
this picture i've
drawn, my arm as my
canvas, as the
blood soaks through
my sleeves in the
morbidly beautiful
shape of a heart

my eyes shadow and
cloud, empty,
hidden, concealed from
the questions that
follow ringing in my
ears long after i
hear them first, and
i duck around the
corner only to
slide my back down
the wall as i crumble
to my knees on
the cold, hard concrete
as i fight the
war of raging tears
biting and snarling behind
my eyelids.

how could you know
that my life is one of constant
and utter dramatics
when you pay no attention to me?
i'll tell you how
you see the patterns etched
deep into my wrists and the
pictures carved into my
ankles and instantly think
that you know everything
possibly bothering me as you
triumphantly think you've
fixed all my life's pressing
issues while i sit in the
therapy room and refuse
to speak a word.

you say i'm too dramatic
but, all of you,
that honor is yours
 
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