Secrets

Secrets are kept for a reason.  And these reasons are incredibly specific to the individual keeper, even if they are not aware of it themselves; the rationale is always there, lurking, growing, becoming as deadly as the secrets they protect.  Petty reasons, vain reasons, frightful reasons, and in some instances, reasons that have lost all meaning or allusion that they might have once seemed to acquire.  Sometimes people hold onto secrets for the blandest of reasons, and because of their vapidity, reasoning sometimes disappear altogether.  This, however, is a terribly frightening occurrence because without a concrete sense of logic surrounding the core reason why you decided to implode and keep locked inside yourself all the things that scare you the most, you will quickly lose sight of yourself, the self you knew before the mind and the secret fused into one body and one soul, never to be separated, betrothed together for the purpose of locking away pernicious memories and poisonous pieces of knowledge that will only ever be known in the darkest pit of your heart. 

            Yes, people keep secrets for reasons, and these secrets are not to be tampered with.   Secrets are easy to form and oh so easy to hide behind.  But what they lack in difficulty upon creating them, they make up for in kind in the difficulty required to break free from their tenacious hold. 

Perfect

When I am exhausted, I will not sleep.

When I am hungry, I will not eat.

And when I am finished and am finally set free,

I will be perfect; just like I’ve wanted to be.

But until then, I will turn skeletons into goddesses and look to them as if they may teach me how not to need.

For I am of absolutely no worth and deserve nothing but my own shame.

Not for long.

Soon, I will be perfect.

I will be thin, light as a feather, floating on air, barely there.

Soon, I will disappear, and leave no trace of myself behind for others to find.

I will die today.  When the clock strikes midnight, I will be gone forever.

And when the sun rises, I will be the one they want.

I will be the daughter they have always wanted, the beautiful friend, the one everyone notices and adores. 

I will be the bones they want, wired on a porcelain frame. 

I will be the picture of beauty, thin and self-sustaining. 

Like a plant, I will train myself to relieve on nothing, to draw nourishment from the air.    

Yes, I will die today.  When I fall asleep, I will disappear, as if I was never here. 

And when I wake, I will be the perfect mannequin. 

                                               

A Friend

All that I wanted today was to be let out. 

     I am so tired of these cages.  Life was never supposed to be an enclosure, keeping you from all the things that are within your reach except for the steel bars and layers of windowless walls and miles of barbwire.  Life was not always like this, but that is what it has become. 

     A nightmare of the realest sense.  There are monsters and fears and limitations that can overpower and frighten a person of any age, but here, everything is so much scarier. 

     I think we all reach a point in our lives when we stop looking for monsters under our beds, noticing they have moved, or perhaps, disappeared.  For some people, the monsters never show up again.  And for others, the monsters live inside them. 

     Sometimes the monsters are us.  We are our own bullies, our own personal hell on earth. 

     And it's difficult to escape something that is attached to both your body and your mind.  So we try to kill the us on the outside, kill the thing on the inside. 

     Suicide is an option, as death always is.  People cringe when they hear the word because they don't realize that death is a friend.  Death is like the moon; it never leaves.  The sun sees us at our brightest moments, and then tires of us, and leaves us alone without looking back. 

     The moon is different, a loyal friend.  The moon realizes how different we are in the dark.  Death is like the moon in the way that is never forsakes us.  With open arms, it follows us around like a shadow, waiting patiently for the moment when we realize the world is no longer a safe place. 

      Other times, death is too easy, too generous, too charitable.  Sometimes we deserve a messy death, a cruel existence.  We failed to become ourselves and so we must suffer the consequence of being a ghost with a beating heart.  In our time on the earth, we did not spare the world of our face, and karma wants vengeance. 

     Along the way, we have grown tired of being perfect.  Or, rather, seeming perfect.  We were never any good to begin with.  And although we should have been stronger, should have tried harder, should have been a person instead of a shell of a person, we all just want a friend. 

     And that's what starving is: a friend.  For the rest of your life, you will never find another person who is so wholly concerned with you and only you.  Starving tears at our body and pollutes our mind, but a friend is a friend. 

    
    

All the Sad Things

Parents worry about their children watching violent films, playing violent games, in fear that their child may grow up to be timid and scared of a world that is now unrecognizable. 

     Yet, they don't think about the effects of all the sad songs, and the sad movies, and the sad books, and how those tragedies can take possession of a child's mind. 

     We destroy our lives before they even begin. 

     We are like clay in the hands of a world that is cruel and unyielding.  We are like puppets, dolls, servants in the hands of world that doesn't even know our names. 

     Most people live their lives in a state of starvation, always searching for that one thing that is always, always missing.   

     And I am no different. 

Such a Tragic Thing

It's a tragic thing, to be ready to die at such a young age. 

Eyesore

 

There is such an ugly thing in the reflection.

     Stares at me with hollow eyes and sunken cheekbones.  She is departed, cold, and so very hollow.  Like a colorless painting.  A painting that has the potential to be a work of art, but is instead a whisper of what could be, a ruined version of what should be. 

    My vision of perfection is cruel, and I have played the fool all along.  The expectations of my daydreams bury me.  Why, oh why, do I do this to myself? 

     How did I go so wrong in life?

Monsters

I wish I could go back and tell little me,

A big kid is not something you want to be.

The monsters that used to live under your bed,

Have moved, and now live inside your head. 

The monsters tell you you're not good enough,

The monsters are what force you to starve and cut.

But the biggest difference between the two,

Is the ones in your head can actually hurt you.