My English teacher is a huge Les Mis fan, like me,

so at the end of my exam, I;m going to draw something about Les Mis and I hope that sh’ll give me bonus marks……………………………..

The desperation is so real.

Another haiku about exams.

I did not study

I am so fucked, oh my god

why did I do this.

A haiku about exams.

No no no no no 

no no no no no no no 

no no no no no 

I always forget to do attendance when I’m at work, so i’m faking it right now, but I just realized that my supervisor puts this all into the computer, and I just fucked myself over.

I just did my drama exam today, and my teacher loved it so much that she wants to keep it so others can perform it.

This is the most beautiful thing I have ever heard, because my entire play was in dedication to my cousin that killed himself. My dedication, and Mike, will live on now, and it makes me want to cry tears of joy.

Once people found out that I wrote that play, I got a standing ovation, and was surrounded in applause. 

It was the most beautiful feeling ever, and I almost cried. I had to force the tears away. 

And during the talk back, multiple people told me that they cried during the play.

Today has been a good day.

My latest poem kinda means a lot to me, and I’m really emotional about it, and the fact that it got three notes has me in tears.

(In a good way)

3 notes may not seem like a lot, but that’s more than 0, and the fact that people liked it, even though it’s a sad thing for me to write about/experience, makes me feel really good.

I don’t even know what I’m saying anymore,

but thank you.

Fathers Day.

The anniversary of your death was yesterday,

24 hours later,

it was fathers day. 

Your daughter changed her profile picture back

to that photo at the family

reunion, and you were wearing blue,

and everything seemed cool.

What killed you,

kills me too,

and nothing hurts more

than the tears that burn

in my throat,

and knowing that I washed you off my skin

not long after

the very last time

that you held me.

I didn’t know,

and I wish you were still here,

because you were kind,

and you were sweet,

and you were so genuine

to me. 

Today is Fathers Day,

and it is 24 hours after the anniversary

of your suicide,

and I hope you know

that you are loved,

and that your children posses

all the kindness,

goodness,

and greatness

that was within you. 

Today,

we’re looking at you. 

In your obituary, it’s not going to say “So and so, a fat person, died in their sleep.”

At your funeral, no one’s going to get up, cry, and say “she was such a good person… If only she wasn’t fat.”

On your tomb stone, it’s not going to read: “Here lies a fat person.”

Your weight does not define you as a person.

So eat that fucking burger

The scariest thing is that now when I think about it, what comes into my mind is “no it didn’t.”

I don’t know why I deny it, and it scares me.

It’s true.
Your suicide killed a part of me too.

3 months without you,
R.I.P.

It feels like it happened years ago,
But it didn’t.

But it’s ok, as much as something like that can be, and I feel like I’ve been getting signs this entire time.

I am constantly uncomfortable and anxious, especially in new, or social experiences.

So sorry for always being anxious, not doing well in public, or not talking to people.
I’m not avoiding you, you aren’t a bad person, I don’t dislike you, and you don’t make me uncomfortable.

I just can’t do a lot of things, and I prefer to spend time with small groups of people in my room, or at the movies, or someplace that I know, and am comfortable with.

I know I’m hard to deal with, so sorry

IN EXACTLY A WEEK, IT WILL BE MY LAST EXAM,

AND I WILL BE DONE WITH HIGHSCHOOL

If I don’t talk to you, don’t take it personally. I just have a really hard time talking to people, and I try to avoid people who I have known for fourteen years sometimes, because I just can’t talk to people, and it makes me panicky. 

Haunted

You haunt me like the voices,
and creaks
that I hear throughout my house
during the nights that I am
left alone.
You are every phone call
that ends with
“sorry, wrong number.”
It is ok, mistaken stranger.
Please, won’t you stay a while?

You are the little girl on the street
Who stares at me
when I walk by, with eyes
filled with the innocence,
and forgiveness of a child.
You are the little girl
who kicked her ball
into the middle of the street,
who I watched so carefully,
and panicked
as if I could have protected her
from an incoming car.
As if I could have protected the fragility
that she posses,
that you find in a baby bird.

You are every song that I ever heard you sing,
that I can’t remember the tune to
anymore.
Your footsteps,
and acoustic songs paired with your voice,
echo in my mind,
but it is not as real
as it was before.
I wish that I could hear it again,
with the same passion
in your eyes.

You were every cliff hanger,
and every tear-jerker.

You are the official Hollywood heart breaker.

You were the epic conclusion.