A poem about severe depression and anxiety, tackling teen suicide, self harm, and relationship issues.
In two parts.
The world watches angry kids,
The discontented ones that might cut I mean.
But this girl,
She knows how it works.
As if she would ever stoop so low.
She was angry though,
Not all the time
But the anger came on hard.
Like a raging anger.
Anger that made her want to die because it would just make more sense.
She might not kill herself,
She was too proud to give up so easily.
But she’d always say “I wouldn’t care if someone else did.”
An aching lack of fear of death.
She hated society.
She hated people.
And she loved just one man.
The only man she could never ever have.
And when he asked her out,
She was finally
The kind of happy where she could be walking to school on a Monday in the freezing soggy miserable rain and just smiling for no other reason than he liked her back.
And she did smile.
Driving or walking or whenever he would float into her thoughts.
All the time,
For the first time in so long.
But “just friends”,
Don’t ever say a girl can’t be friend zoned.
"It was so fast"
Two lousy weeks,
a cup of coffee,
a bouquet of flowers that she couldn’t even keep because her parents couldn’t know until she knew it was real and it never even was.
But one rose hung upside-down dried out and sits on her desk.
And he kills herself looking for little hints, hanging on to the idea that he might come back to her.
Then, again, her old habits came back. Yes, I said she was too proud to cut,
Or kill herself.
But she would take any thing she could swing and she would wail it into her skin,
The gentle flesh of her arms and her thighs because no one would think anything of it.
No one would question them.
"Not like anyone cared enough to see them as anything more than clumsy me," she thought.
And funny enough, no one ever did.
And the Hair Brush Handel Bruises on her hands and fore arms showing all the pain she felt knowing he can never be hers and the screams in the shower though the gasping sobs until it hurts
Until she has no more breaths to breath and still she laughs at his jokes like a loyal subject to the throne and pretends she is still that genuine happy;
all the time dying inside and reasoning with herself because she knows she doesn’t even give a damn about being validated by her relationship status that has never truly been out of single.
But those bruises remind her that she is unwanted.
And she figured that even if she had him,
After time went by,
Even they joy he brought her would fade away and leave her as empty as she had always been.
So it was better to pretend that she was alive,
Instead of trying to explain what being a semi-sociopathic teenager was really like.
Instead of showing how all she ever felt like was an ugly,
Shell of a thing someone might mistake as a girl.