i could talk more of the self-hatred i've learned in those

four walls than

that of the required courses i'm meant to take. it'll 

be more than just a surface wound next time,

i'll paint a picture on the walls with 

my insides just to teach  you how to do your job. the facts

and figures i've copied down on that

college ruled paper of disappointment prove nothing

more than the truth that i'll never be as great

as you expect me to be. it's become my reality that i'm only as great

as the letters marked on that flimsy sheet of paper, one

so delicate that even the smallest

of my tears can stain the ink and cause it to 

pool into into lost dreams. you don't tell me what's right about

me, you tell me what's wrong. the hierarchy of bullshit 

you've piled on me since the beginning of 

year 9 has pulled me down more than that of the

heavy chains of my depression. you see, it's not me, it's

you. you're the one who's not good enough, never

giving me a passing chance and dismissing

blood shot eyes and blood stained sleeves with that of "It's

just a phase."