Dear universe
At 13 I thought that the universe hates me. For it made me tainted and it made me unlovable. Perhaps it was true; or perhaps I was just 13. Now I finally see that there are things that actually love me.
The darkness holds me still and grief kisses my hand. The demons in my head tell me it'll be fine. And hunger kind of always stays along with this unbearable ache. Longing lingers like a lonely child and sinister thoughts eat me up inside. Years of misery and wishing to be dead. Screams of terror and weeps of fate. But dear universe I wont complain. For dear universe I still am loved.
The worst thing you ever did was to make me believe I could be loved
What am I?
A strange thing to wonder
I'm the anger of my father,
And the silent cries of my mother.
I'm the broken pieces of childhood,
Of a once happy daughter.
What can life offer anyway
That I can't have with you in death?
What feels more like home anyway
Than it does besides your grave?
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I don't think I could ever stop writing completely.
permillion44
I fell for you gently as leaves do on a dreary autumn evening.
You continued to bloom delicately as you were the sweetest child of spring.
Unnoticed for years, my world has been touched by you.
In running away from home, I found a home in you.
I fell for you, like hades fell for persephone
And I am falling, like moon falls around the earth still.
I write this with my love, hoping that you might see this too.
I share this with the world, but really it only ever was for you.
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To simply exist in all her devotion.
If to love is to rest then I will perceive death for you.
For what greater form of rest do we know than to lie in the cold, dark earth forever?
Losing a friend
Ask me where it hurts
Everywhere I'll say
Ask me if I miss you
Everyday I'll say
Tw: self harm, self loathing
A girl lies on her bedroom floor.
She bleeds through her eyes and cries through her veins.
I watch her helplessly and let her fall apart.
Everyday she fights long lost battles and dies gruesome deaths.
Her life is nothing but a grave full of dead hopes.
I watch her and do nothing.
Perhaps because there isn't much left of her to be saved.
She is covered in bruises I don't recognize her anymore.
I watch her with curiosity.
Her eyes dark and cold like the night itself, she reeks of misery.
A home full of ghosts, none of them remotedly as dead as her soul.
I watch her mercilessly.
After all that's what monsters like her deserve.
I say, and I stop watching her.
No part of her deserves to be loved.
I say, and I step away from the mirror.
I want to kill myself just enough for you to visit. Atleast then I'll get to see you somewhere that's not just my dreams.
The poem as prey, as blood luscious, elusive. The poem as the locked room.
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