What is wrong with me?
When did I turn into this person?
I do these things
And they hurt.
They fucking hurt.
I want to be normal.
"What is normal?"
(Words of my shrink)
Normal is not hacking my arm.
Normal is not thinking fondly of suicide.
Normal is not needing to be depressed.
I need it.
Feeling suicidal makes me feel alive.
That's not normal.
That's sick and twisted and wrong.
My scars don't make me special.
My blood doesn't make me trendy.
My fucking thoughts don't do me any good.
But I don't know how to be anything else.
If I don't have these thoughts that hurt,
These scars that burn-
What am I?
Who am I?
Will I be normal then?
If I don't cut, or play around with tablets.
Take my Prozac like a good little girl-
Am I normal then?
Or am I just a fucked up teenager with a happy smile painted on my face…?
Sometimes I don't know.
Sometimes I don't care.
I'd like to credit my friend James for helping me with this poem. I wrote it because of our talks.