Back when I was super depressed about a year ago, I wrote this to get it out f me. Although it's kind of sad, I've always been proud of this poem, because I put my absolute heart into it. I hope you like it :)
I have "friends" who don't call me because I can't text them back.
I have friends who won't respond because they simply don't think I'm worth it.
My real friends live hours away, some in different countries. This must be someone's idea of a cruel joke.
I may have high self-esteem, but I have low self-confidence.
But I can't tell you. You wouldn't trust me if I did. Everything I have now is because I said I was confident. Which I am. But not here.
And I'm hungry, but right now, I won't eat.
And I'm tired. But I won't go to sleep,
because of these protected words, that spill through my mouth, forcing their way out of my poisoned veins.
I'm sorry I'm not your perfect girl, who you thought you gave birth to.
The girl who could talk, at just the right moments, only when you want her to.
I'm sorry I curl into a ball when you're sad, when you're hurt, because I want to hide my guilt.
I'm sorry I don't make eye contact with you when you want it, because I don't want to look at your sad, pain-filled eyes. Because I know I'm the reason.
And I'm sorry that I like to read graphic novels, and manga, and watch anime.
And I'm sorry that I like cosplay, and that I like dressing up like a boy, and that I have read Harry Potter over, and over, and over again, because I want to escape inside the story.
But I can't tell you that either. Because you don't like it when I feel that way. When I dream.
I'm sorry I'm a difficult daughter, who needs: rules control restrictions. Bars on a cage that can't and won't break easily.
And I'm sorry she wants more than she can have. And that she really isn't happy.
And my happiness is fading. I feel like a writer who doesn't write.
An artist who just can't quite get that paintbrush on that canvas.
Who's life is just there, not actually living.
And it doesn't make sense. My words confuse me with each one I write.
But they free me. Not completely. It's more like an illusion of happiness.
Makes me feel better on the outside. But it's a cover to mask the rain that pours non-stop inside; a fake ladder to touch down at the bottom of this deep dark pit.
I'm sorry you feel as though you are the monster, and that you are the villain. But you don't take my words even though I want you to. When I tell you, you aren't. I think that's because I've hurt you too many times to make you believe me.
And remember that night, when you yelled, Maddie, you're ruining this family. When you said, Bring my daughter back, you sick creature...
You said you were sorry. You had said you didn't mean it. But inside, you did. I know you meant it. It was no coincidence that you stole the words right out of my mouth, and were brave enough to say them.
Maybe I'm being dramatic. I know you love me, no matter what. A least, that's what you tell me.
Even now, the illusion is trying to mask what I'm feeling. Telling me it's not that bad. There's too many truths, so I don't think I'll show you. But I can still say I'm sorry.