You talk to older boys online.
Cos you are so hungry for affection, that you’d do just about anything to get it.
The only reason half the school doesn’t have your nudes is cos you hate your body, so much that you think everyone else should too.
You push razor blades deep into your legs,
Watch as the blood mixes with the shower water.
Just on the off chance that if anyone gets that far,
They’ll know that you already know that you’re worthless.
When your home alone you eat, everything.
Then you drink saltwater and shove the back end of your toothbrush down your throat.
In the hope that somewhere, somewhere in you, there is some kind of beautiful.
You haven’t found it yet.
You have a search history full of dieting trends and teen dating websites.
Cos you want to be good enough but until then you want to find love or whatever you’d call online predators calling you pretty.
You say you have never been in love but you text “Ily” to about ten different guys at the same time,
Cos you are afraid that if you don’t comply.
They will leave you.
You let boys catcall you as you walk to feminist open mic’s.
Cos all week you are called a dishwasher be the farmers that think being sexist will make their ***** feel bigger and their beer belly, jersey-wearing dads proud.
And after five days of that be objectified is normal but being objectified in a “sexy” way is a nice change from the normal.
You fill your schedule up as much as possible,
So you don’t have time to think.
Cos you have been abused and hiding for so long that you are afraid of your thoughts.
And where they might lead.
You like to fill your mind with plots and scenes before you try to sleep,
Just so you aren’t left with only your past to think about.
You are broken.
But you say you are fine.
You can turn your tears into a laugh with one breath in and out.
You can fake it all.
You created a perfect family picture.
You put so many chairs against the closet door to keep all the skeletons in their place.
But they never left your mind.
You play happy families with your sister when the cousins are down.
But if she says she loves you one more time without an apology, you don’t think you’ll be able to take it.
She will never apologise.
For ******* you up.
For being the reason you can’t believe that anyone could ever truly love you.
For abusing you until you no longer know who you were or why you are here.
For twisting the story so much that you don’t know what is fact and fiction, anymore.
You don’t know who you are anymore.
You will not find yourself at the end of that pack of ****,
But you don’t want to be that girl anymore.
You smoke to forget everything.
You smoke cos you wish that somehow it will make you sound normal.
You inhale hoping with every bone in your mixed nationally body that somehow the smoke will twist your vocals into something more Irish,
You smoke to hide the fact that at any moment you might just break.
Trying to hold everything in until you can be alone.
You spend nights letting boys tell you how they will touch you,
Cos you can pretend that for just one moment you are wanted.
Your friends ask you how you are doing,
Some are told that you are fine so fine.
The close few think they know what is going on,
But they don’t.
No one knows how you really are so smoke another cigarette,
Chat up another boy.
Hide another skeleton in your closet.
You try to expose your life in poetry,
But you are too afraid to speak up.
You use metaphor after metaphor,
So that no one sees through you.
You are a writer and the only time you will be open is when the page is there for you to exploit your darkness and past.
Only to edit it until it is no longer your story.
Or tell everyone it’s about a friend.
You are so young but you feel so old.
You skipped your childhood.
But no one noticed.
You are crumbling before their eyes,
But they never got close enough to notice.
Your only true friend is the page,
And you can’t even be honest with her.
You only feel beautiful when you are hungry,
But you only feel content when you are full.
You fight for feminism,
But go and let boys objectify you.
You are afraid of dying,
But smoke cos you don’t know how much more of living you can take.
You only feel alive when you are performing,
But you feel more dead than before once the applause dies down.
Cos you just exposed every inch of your body and it is grim in there.
You only feel worthy when you are giving people advice,
But you can’t take that advice and you know that you are just fake.
You never wear makeup but can’t post a picture without a filter.
You wear a seat belt on the bus,
After running out from your smoking spot.
You are fake,
But isn’t that what they want.