Daisy Chained Bracelets

Oh darling
You sit in your bedroom
Hair knotted and dirty
And hands that tremble so bad
That even a cigarette can not calm your constant nerves
You bite your tongue until you taste blood
And you will yourself not to cry
Because you are better than that
But no better than intentionally drawing blood from your pretty pale wrists
And you take care of those horrible cuts
With pretty bowed band-aids
Until you find yourself asleep on the floor
You do not shed one tear
But when your hand accidentally grazes the jagged end of the fence
On your way to the park the following morning
You cry for hours
And don't understand why.

Flowers

I do not understand
My undying love of flowers
I love the way their leaves curl
I love their variety of vibrant petals that adorn them
And I love their fresh floral scent that sends my toes curling
Perhaps my love of flowers
Derives from the love that I once felt for you
Because just like all of my flowers
My love for you died unexpectedly
On a sad summer morning
And I stood by the window
Not understanding why the birds still took flight, and hummed their tune
And 'till this day
Just like my never ending sequence of wilting flowers
You leave me wondering aimlessly outside my window

xxx

Talia

Your Heart is an Ice Cube on a Warm Summer Day

          What makes you think that you are special in any way, shape, or form?
          Please tell me dear child, for I'd like to know.
          What runs through your mind on a late summer night?
          When your bed sheets are tangled in your legs
          And you're sweating so much
          That you lick your lips in frustration
          And stick your head so far in the freezer
          That the tips of your hair turn into frost
          And you close your eyes and wish with every ounce of pixie dust you posess from your head to your                  toes
          That your head is not in a freezer
          But rather a gas oven
          So that you're cooked to absolute perfection
          Too bad the summer heat opts out this wonderful tactic.

       

You Stupid, Stupid Girl

Oh what a silly concept it is 
To cut into one's skin
And on purpose that is
But look here
Your chosen sharp item is already in your hand, baby girl 
And the tears are streaming down your face
You're screaming so loud 
But not a sound escapes from your lips 
And the blade, or the shard of glass, or the razor, or the broach that your grandmother gave to you when she passed away last May
Is pressing down onto your wrist 
Just do it, you curse yourself
The blood prickles, the crimson red rising from the cuts you just marked against your pale white skin
It lands onto your pretty white dress
And you rip that goddamn dress off
Because you hated it anyway 
Or so you tell yourself
Because lately you've been hating everything, and everyone
Including yourself
No, no
Especially yourself
And twiddling the blade 
Or the shard of glass
Or the razor
Or the broach that your grandmother gave to you when she passed away last May
With your long elegant fingers
You stash it away hastily in your pillow case
Until you need it's comfort once more
But for now, your knees are drawn into your bare chest
And you allow yourself to cry 
Until the morning comes along
And there is a loud knock on your bedroom door 
Willing you to come back to reality 
Even though this harsh cycle of depression 
Has become just that
Reality...

Sunday Blues

My feet are frigid
My nails bitten down to a stump
My hair is dried and tangled
My heart aches
From an unknown sadness
That is actually known
But I like to tell myself otherwise
Maybe it's because I'm afraid
Of finding the source
And killing it with my chattering teeth
Or maybe
Just maybe
It's the Sunday Blues
Pumping through my blue veins
Blue
Blue
Blue
Sunday
Blues

Home Alone, Mean and Sad Teachers, and Girls

           Hey guys. Doubt anyone in the world is reading this right now, due to the fact that I only have one follower. But still. It feels good to hear the click clack of  my keyboard. It feels good to write a normal blog post, even if no one is ever going to look at it. Sometimes it's alright to talk to yourself. Everyone else's input isn't really important anyway, now is it?
          I'm home alone right now, which scares me a bit to be honest. Even though I usually lock myself in my room, and distance myself from my family, and sometimes even my friends (via text), there's just something about hearing your mom cooking in the kitchen, banging pots and pans (not literally of course), and your sister complaining about her math homework, and your brother's crap music playing so loud you can't hear yourself think. It's comforting in a way, because even though I'm alone in my room, I'm not really alone.
          I just ate two Fruit Roll-Ups and failed at successfully tattooing my tongue (can anyone successfully give themselves a Fruit Roll-Up tongue tattoo? I mean come on folks, let's be serious here, the juicy power one holds is too much to tease the tongue with for 60 seconds. That crap has to be eaten). I downed my guilty pleasure with a Ssips, and was momentarily brought back to the lunchroom of my elementary school, and the horribly plump lady who was always there that the kids made fun of. Even though she was terrible, I still felt pretty bad for her. I mean, does she have someone to go home to? Someone that loves her? Someone that knows her favorite color, and someone that cooks her favorite meals on Fridays? Maybe that's why I asked her to sign my fifth grade year book. She was actually surprisingly nice about it. She looked a bit taken back, but also grateful that someone acknowledged her. It feels nice to be acknowledged.
           Anyway, I'm getting off topic. My mom was nice enough to let me stay home from school today, due to it being the first day of my period, and I feel like a gremlin is trying to break loose inside me. I just finished watching the first season of Girls, a show on HBO.

It was really, really good. I enjoyed it a lot. It made me laugh, it made me feel for the characters, and it didn't give me an unrealistic picture of what it's going to be like growing up. It was incredibly raw, and I just loved every awkward, yet somewhat relatable, aspect about this show. The characters were very different from each other, and they weren't perfect in any way, shape or form. They were flawed, and wonderful, and just...ugh. I totally recommend watching it if you don't mind raunchy sex scenes, nudity, and some cursing. I mean, come on guys, this is an HBO show we're talking about here. 

Well, I guess I'm going to wrap up this post now. I don't know if I'm hungry or not, but I may just make myself a sandwich and watch season 2 of Girls. 

Ciao. 

xxx

Talia 

Depression

With an old pair of steel scissors
He cut me open deeply
From the middle of my collarbone
Down to my stomach
Ripping away the two flaps of flesh that He created
He examined all I had to offer
A beating heart, with pretty blue veins, and scarlet red arteries attached to it
There were a lot of other pretty little things
That He probed gently, with those goddamn steel scissors
He showed interest in my lungs
My ribs
My liver
And my pancreas
Little by little He grabbed each and every thing He found to His liking
With His strong, bare hands
Little by little He took everything
When He was completed
He carelessly sowed my two flaps of flesh together
All the way back up to my collarbone
And I was left with nothing
As He walked away
I was empty.

xxx

Talia

Morning

I don't know why
I wake up so early in the morning
When my eyes are so heavy
As a result
I don't know why
I even bother
It's not even worth it
To suffer with the sadness
And the anxiety
It's all too much to handle
And I have no one to help me
Push through the day
I have no one
To make me look forward to tomorrow
Because it will just be the same routine

xxx

Talia

            I just don’t know who I am anymore. I’m sad, I’m angry, I’m empty, I’m lonely. I hate myself. I hate my face, and my body. Not only my scars that I can’t help but recreate, but my cellulite on the back of my legs and ass. The stretch marks on my thighs. The acne on my skin. The thinness of my eyelashes and lips, and the slope of my nose. I hate the fact that no guy has ever looked at me and thought, “Wow, she’s breathtaking. I’d love to get to know her.” I hate the way no guy ever looks at me, period. I hate how I can’t read all of the books in my closet as I once would’ve when I wasn’t consumed by what may possibly be depression. I hate how I’ve lost my identity as a writer, because you’re not a writer if you don’t write. I hate the thick eyeliner I’ve been putting on my eyes everyday because I’ve been waking up late every morning. I hate how I’m always tired. Every fucking day. I’m falling asleep by the middle of school, even when I go to bed at 9pm. I hate how I come in an 1 hour early to school and cry in the bathroom stall and then do downward dog for Yoga class. I hate that I’m only whispered to when someone needs an answer to a test. I hate how no one cares. How everyone puts my feelings aside. I hate the way people look at me, when they even do. How this one girl touched my shoulder today and asked me if I was goth. No. I’m not goth. I’m nothing. 
Get it right.

xxx
Talia