in which I write some collectively depressing insights on my life right now.

So, I guess, it's just kinda whatever. Just bored as all shit.. Not exactly like my usual, but hey. After all that poetry shit we've been doing in english... I'm gonna write something, I guess.

Prepare your anus for a raping of lameness and emo-ness I guess...

I always wonder the different reasons for people cutting.

For me, it's akin to popping a pimple; the satisfaction of the skin breaking and releasing built up pressure. The pressure of being told I'm not good enough, that I'm stupid. Feeling like I'm
~not speshul enough~

that I
am not good enough to be sat by
to spend time with
to be born

After,
I like the technique, the babying it requires

the raised, warm, infected skin
after a few days

must cradle it, take care of it, drain it
save it
Hide it like a treasure

hush-hush, like secrets told at sleepovers
"truth", I said,
under comforters with dimming flashlights

Constant reminders that
I am not
good enough
never
good enough
just a hassle

always a hassle

God forbid if I feel anything but pure bliss
or I'm just too much to take care of

you don't understand
how anyone can fucking stand to talk to me
I don't either
they don't anymore, I am the spare tire stuck in the back of the car,
waiting for the rubber to wear thin on one of the used so I can be
slipped on cautiously for a while

The silent extrovert in the group, waiting to be acknowledged
waiting to be spoke to
seen, but not heard, like a good child should be

the passive-aggressive hard worker with the chapped lips,
picked skin around fingers from frustration
the normal-girl-with-cracked-soul cliche that never seems to fail

Bad poetry and bad art, a mysteriously-unmysterious soul eking out her existence.