that if i didn't start using capital letters in my poems,
she wouldn't read any more of them.
i just told her in a quiet voice that i was tired of screaming
at people who would never listen.
the thing with me is that i always
read too much into things-
people, newspapers, fucks, metaphors.
and usually i fall in love with things that
could never love me back.
2. i destroy the things that mean
the most to me, and i've never gotten the hang
of writing in stanzas.
most days i walk around reciting numbers
and other people's poetry, but usually
i just count the seconds i spend falling apart and
avoiding the things that make me whole because
self-destruction will always be my forte.
3. broken people seem to have a way of finding each other.
like we work under this assumption that we can find
perfect in each other's missing pieces,
even though we all know two wrongs will never make a right
"do you want me to fuck you?" you ask,
because you want to hear the yes, the affirmation that
someone could love you as much as you don't love yourself.
and i say yes, because your happiness will always be worth more than mine
but really i am saying, nononono,
i want you to fall in love with me.
broken people do not help other broken people.
we destroy them further, even if we do not mean to.
4. sometimes people ask me why i seem so grown up.
they ask where my childhood went.
sometimes i tell them that peter pan raped my mother,
or that i've crossed out too many 'grace and _____ forever'
or that the government cancelled my ability
to reach for the stars.
i never tell them that i think my childhood
just got very good at hiding from the bruises and
black eyes that threaten its life.
it sits on my collarbone and inside the dip of my ankle
and i will always keep its secret.
there are days when i want to be a poet,
and i have to remind myself to care about others.
i was always the kid in the back who
chewed on blue colored crayons and told herself
that silver was the best
5. i make my houses out of photographs and help the wolf blow them down.
for so long, i've held my fists closed and now
i think i've forgotten how to let go.
This Is Me Screaming At You.