I wrote this when I was 15. Finally gathered the courage to accept and expect constructive criticism about my innermost feelings. I haven't edited a single word in this piece, so even though hopefully I've matured over the past three years and so has my writing, I like this piece to be original and true to the confused teenager I was back then.


I'm crying, not out of pain of numbness, but out of sole confusion and the overwhelming thoughts that ravage my endlessly tormented mind.

I'm torn, not because of the great hurt you have caused me or the harsh things you've said behind my back, but because I don't know what to do with myself anymore or what I should do about this mess I'm in.

I'm lost, even though I know perfectly well, where I am, but because I'm feeling the heavy weight of absolution in that sense of chaste abandonment.

I feel lonely despite the fact that I just got off the phone laughing. The isolation cuts but I feel nothing but relief.

I'm worried, not because my tears won't stop falling, but because I want to scream but can't.

I have difficulty breathing.

I'm suffocating each time I inhale.

My heart tells me I should give up.

My mind insists I'm being pathetic.

My body is burning.

My hands are shaking.

I'm cold even though it's the middle of summer.

I can't find the words to express my sorrow.

The bitter taste of something I can't put my finger on rises at the back of my throat.

My tongue feels swollen. I bite my lips until I taste blood.

The walls around me laugh in silence.

Witness my pain, mock my state.

Agony embraces my weary spirit.

I'm broken yet again.

Shattered without a single touch, time is against me, I linger still.

Scattered in pieces, a mosaic to piece.

This rollercoaster of emotions only speeds up until I pass out from reality.

Up, down, round and round.

Insane.

Thirsty.

A switch and a snap of the fingers, you beckon my helpless soul.

Under your spell, a puppet cut loose, I stumble and trip. Graceful not.

I'm yours to order around and do what you please.

Kick me down and I swear I won't make a sound.

I'm fading, not because I'm giving in but because I'm exhausted.

My eyes are closing, not drooping; I just can't find the strength to see anymore.

I'm dying, not because my physical health is in any danger but because my mental state of mind is past the point of fragile and has been rendered utterly useless.

I'm sick.

I just want you to know, that I'm not okay, not because I say so but because you left when I needed a shoulder to cry on; a friend to comfort me.

I'm heartbroken, not because I was in love with you, you didn't break my heart.

Why didn't you ever gather the courage to say those nasty things to my face?

Why did you lie to me for all these years?

What ulterior motive did you have hidden up your sleeve?

What is it about my pain that amuses you so much?

You somehow gained my trust, made me reveal the secrets I wish to forget then twisted that blunt knife into my unsuspecting back as I crouched on my knees lulled by a false sense of security.

I can't say that I'm forgiving you, perhaps I never shall.

However, this is my way of letting go so you no longer grip my heart, mind, and soul in your sinful hand.

I don't have the strength to hate you.

No energy to condemn you.

Nothing left for anger, bitterness or regret to feed on.

Friends don't last really forever.

Love taught me how to lie.

The memories never die.

Sad thing is...

I want to keep living a fantasy.

Despite all logic, the million shattered pieces of my heart form a mosiac and each beat still screams;

I love you.


If you don't get it, sorry this is one of those things you either get or you don't. I guess my train of thought is a bit complicated, but this is love-hate love we're talking about.