Why I write, is so I can have an outlet.

My lips are frozen, my voice is broken, I can't express how I feel because I-

am softspoken.

Why I write, is so I can vent.

When nobody's there, and no one seems to care, the paper and the pen, serve as my true friends,

I - go to them. And I write.

 

I tell them of the many stories that happen time after time,

And as I continue to tell them, I feel a little alright

because they dont judge me for what I've done. 

They don't use my own written words against me to make cry,

and therefore I continue to write.

 

I tell them - about how I never had a real friend.

How a girl that befriended me, became my enemy. How she treated me. How-

she BULLIED me.

Kicks, punches, slaps, choke holds,

anything that you could think of physical

and- on top of that, the emotional and the mental.

Words that cut so deep, even had me, to believe, that everything, she said about me-

was true.

From my big sized 10 feet that filled my shoes,

to my lazy eye, that was so far behind, whenever I looked to the side.

She made me hate myself, she made me cry.

 

But I couldn't cry for help.

I had no dignity for myself.

She controlled me.

She made me lie

She made me cheat

She made me steal,

She control how I would think.

She- humiliated me. For all my peers to see.

And the worst part was nobody said a thing.

They would only continue to laugh at me,

join in with her.

The laughing began to hurt much more than the words.

I felt SO alone-

at school, and at home.

 

And I continued to write because no one could hear my screams.

Crying, breathing for air as the tears sufficated me.

And yet I still write.

Because when I try to talk the words don't come out right.

And I'm still writing because my whole life-

I've bottled up my emotions, sometimes I even try to bottle them up, with a bottle that I'm holding.

I try to fight-

Away the feelings that I'm feeling

sometimes inhaling, smoking weed, feels better than breathing.

But even after the hallucinations and the hangovers.

The pain that is my reality is still not over.

 

And the love that I was looking for, to love myself. 

I couldn't bring myself to do that, so I tried to love someone else.

But the irony.

How it backfired on me.

They didnt even love me- because if they did,

they wouldn't have infested me, with an STD.

 

And I'm still writing...

And I still feel alone.

My mother's dissapointed, my father's heated

and I can't come home.

I've hurt so many people, especially the people close to me.

There is no way I can love myself now, when they dont even love me.

 

But I'm still writing, because maybe one day I can right my wrongs.

These people that loveme and forgive me-

maybe I can move on.

Maybe I can one day forgive me, love me, now-

and the me I used to be.

And I will still keep on writing and tell my story.

For that one I can put my friends down, my paper and my pen,

and finally read the stories that I have written.