When I was 12 I realized I didn't
Want to feel the things
The doctors told me it was
Okay to feel.
"Medicate my pain"
I told them.
"Take away my demons"
When I was 13 I realized
I wasn't the only one
Who had these feelings.
Behind locked doors,
Kids with broken smiles,
Stand in paper clothes,
And cotton socks with
Grips on the bottom.
Because God forbid we fall harder
Than our hearts already have.
And God forbid,
We wear the jeans
That have pockets full
Of tattered dreams
And one loose blade in our
Back left pocket.
Doctors told us we were
Still okay.
We are not okay.
These pockets held our secrets.
And in our pockets,
Crinkled papers
Overflow.
Each paper saying,
"We cut and kill flowers,
Because we think they're beautiful
And we cut and kill ourselves
Because we think we're not."
This was written by the
Blades
In our back left pockets.
Because we all thought
It was true. We think the red lines
We draw onto us are
More beautiful
Than the canvas itself.
We wanted people to
Reach into our pockets
And tell us we were
The flowers.
Not the dead ones.
The ones worthwhile
And living.
The beautiful ones.
And that when people
Cut us down
From our branches,
We ask that they
Keep us
In a tall,
Glass vase.
Away from the
Locked doors
And paper clothes.
Away from the
Cotton socks with
Grips on the bottom,
Do not treat us
As a fall risk.
Most importantly,
Rest us in a vase,
High on a counter,
Away from the jeans
With the pockets,
Full of Tattered dreams.
"You'll still be okay."
They told us.
And we were.