I hate how I try to express my thoughts and feelings to you and you tell me they're ridiculous. My thoughts need to be reassured and my feelings are important. I deserve to be heard.
You complain about how I never share anything with you, when in reality, I do and you don't listen. You call me out on spending time in my room and away from you. Maybe, if I was actually accepted for being who I am, I would feel comfortable around you. Maybe I feel like an outcast when I'm in a sea full of people.
Do you have any idea how many times I've stopped myself from breaking down in public? Have you any idea on how many nights I wake up, holding back screams of terror as I wake from yet another nightmare about him?
If you actually listened to me, you would have already known what happened this week and why I'm stressing out. If you would actually engage in a conversation, look me in the eye, and ask if I was alright, do you think I would give you an honest answer?
How many people have I talked out of suicide? How many more have I told to stay strong? Where does my faith lie? What do my words mean and how are they said? What do I talk about the most? How many people do I try to cheer up on a daily basis? Do you know?
How many times have I cried this week? Why did I cry? What do you think is important to me? Why is it?
Do you even know me at all? Do you know the stories I write and the words I speak? Do you know the songs I create and how many nights I sleep?
Do you know the cries I weep, the lives I keep, and the times I leap? When it comes down to jumping or flying, I'll choose both. Only because I know what it's like to float and feel like you're sinking.
YOU ARE READING
Growing Pains
PoetryThe cool metal ran along their hand like a blanket of snow; cold, light, blank. To think that such a blade could end something so precious - so beautiful, within seconds. How could someone do so with no hesitation? Perhaps it is the thought of reli...
